


When the Ice Melts

by collarsandplaid



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bromance, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Repressed, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Illya actually cares, M/M, Napoleon shouldn't be so surprised, No Sex Just Love, Protective Illya, Subtle Pining, Whump, gentle touch/words, some violence, why is this so long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4727903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collarsandplaid/pseuds/collarsandplaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is Illya. He is everything he does. Everything he does embodies him as a person. He can knock a man unconscious without even knocking him off his feet, and he can force a man down with enough power to ensure the man never gets up again. But at the same time, he can stitch a wound with the care and precision of a doctor; he can smooth away the pain of a hang-over with cool fingertips. He’s infuriating and comforting and Napoleon doesn’t want to see the day when he stops. </p><p>(or 5 times Napoleon noted Illya caring for his partners and one time it's Napoleon's turn)<br/>(or or 5 times Napoleon felt closer to his partner and the one time he became worried about it)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic in a new fandom, on a new site, with a new username. Man from UNCLE has encouraged me to post once again so here I am.
> 
> I am official MFU trash and have found myself a comfortable niche here with the rest of you. If you haven't already, do checkout the tv show. It's just as fun as the movie without the "I don't like you but I actually do" tension. Granted the effects aren't as modern but you should see David McCallum (Illya) do his own stunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfic in a new fandom, on a new site, with a new username. Man from UNCLE has encouraged me to post once again so here I am.
> 
> I am official MFU trash and have found myself a comfortable niche here with the rest of you. If you haven't already, do checkout the tv show. It's just as fun as the movie without the "I don't like you but I actually do" tension. Granted the effects aren't as modern but you should see David McCallum (Illya) do his own stunts.

It was a rare phenomenon, like a splash of green light flashing over the sea for a spectacular second as the sun sank below the horizon, or a dazzling display of lightning with the crack of thunder in the middle of a snow storm. It was often fleeting, a heat of the moment kind of occurrence that later could be disregarded as a trick of the eye either due to shock or the sheer incredibility of the action.  
  
But it did happen and it surprised Napoleon Solo every time it did. To see the same man who had once tore the back off of his escaping vehicle and then toss it with ease, be so gentle. To see the same hands that could render a man powerless and gasping for breath on the ground with a simple punch to the throat, be so careful. It was like bearing witness to one of Mother Nature’s most beautiful and awe-inspiring spectacles.  
  
Napoleon wouldn’t have believed the severe Russian, more akin to the great Iron Curtain than to a human made of flesh and bone, capable of such feats of genuine care if he had not seen them first-hand. He was unsure why he was granted witness to the viewing and the direct involvement in such feats of compassion, considered common in your typical person but always appeared difficult for the Red Peril.  
  
Perhaps it was their closeness, under direct orders of course, but still, after a while, “partner” can become to mean more than someone you have to share a leash with. Perhaps it was their gained familiarity: Napoleon’s suaveness (a constant annoyance according to the Russian spy) to the Peril’s impassivity (to which Napoleon loved to test the limits of). Perhaps it was because, under all the stoic frowns and simmering glares, past the anger issues and tapping fingers that conveyed an insatiable rage due to psychotic tendencies, there actually was a human in the KGB agent who did feel sympathy and could exhibit kindness.  
  
Personally, Napoleon had been privy to only a few instances in which the iron in Illya Kuryakin’s bones softened and the ice thawed in his veins – only a few mind you but the effect of merely observing them left Napoleon with a sense of incredulity and the incomprehensible desire to see more.  
  
Napoleon was lucky to catch the first instance. He hadn’t exactly been completely cognizant at the time, what with being strapped to a metal chair, bare feet submerged in icy water, and an electrical current coursing through his convulsing body. It was a miracle he had been coherent at all to see Illya through the glass window at the door that kept him locked in Rudi’s pitiful state of a laboratory.  
  
With the electricity blessedly turned off and Rudi cowering in the corner with a new dent in his throat, Illya made his way to Napoleon. The Russian’s eyes were cold and too bright; a tightness around the eyes that was a clear sign of the temper flaring just beneath the surface. Those eyes glanced at Napoleon’s face for a moment, just long enough to catch the American’s gaze and his drawling smile of greeting. Something flickered across Illya’s face when their eyes met, something like relief, before it was gone and his expression went hard again.  
  
Illya gave Napoleon’s body a quick examination, and when he saw no immediate external injury, he reached out his hands and roughly tore the leather straps away from Napoleon’s left wrist.  
  
Napoleon’s hand came free with a not-so-subtle jerked and he flinched, hard. The cry burst unwilling from his throat. He bit down on his tongue and the sound shifted to a strangled silence but left a cruel resonance hanging in the air. After granting himself a moment of weakness – eyes screwed shut and chest heaving with breaths that were meant to steady – Napoleon opened tired eyes and looked to Illya, ready to admonish the man for his brusque carelessness. The words died in his throat.  
  
Illya was frozen where he stood, hands slightly extended towards the next strap, flakes of leather trapped between his fingers. His eyes were locked on the wrist he had just freed, trembling now against Napoleon’s chest, the bruises dark against paled skin. An evident burn marked where the node had pressed into the soft inside of Napoleon’s wrist.  
  
“Peril?” Napoleon tried, wincing at the sound of his voice. He licked his lips in preparation to try and rouse his rescuer again, but Illya was already moving.  
  
Gaze resolutely drawn downward to Napoleon’s right wrist, Illya lifted both hands to the leather straps. Napoleon gave an unconscious flinch, attempting to mentally prepare himself for further mistreatment and pain.  
  
But when Illya touched the leather straps, fingertips brushing against the raw flesh of Napoleon’s wrist, the touch was surprisingly gentle. Rather than tearing the straps away, Illya snapped off the lock keeping them in place and then slowly, and with a care that left Napoleon wondering if Rudi hadn’t switched to a hallucinogenic, unwound the straps. Napoleon was conflicted about urging the man to hurry (who knew how long they had before someone found them) and admiring the restraint Illya was showing to ensure Napoleon endured no further unnecessary pain.  
  
When the second wrist came free, Illya’s hands went up to the strap at Napoleon’s head and removed this with similar care. Napoleon allowed his head to dip forward, stretching the muscles rendered stiff from continuous electrical shocks. He massaged his wrists under Illya’s watchful stare; the heaviness of that stare almost tangible.  
  
“Thanks for that, Peril,” Napoleon said, trying to use a relieved sigh to hide the wheeze still in his voice. “Might have had to resort to more lethal doses of charm if you hadn’t shown up.” He flashed Illya a smile with as much said charm as he could get into the taut muscles.  
  
“Can you stand?” was all Illya said in reply.  
  
“Yes, I’d say so,” Napoleon answered nonchalantly. He managed to maneuver his feet under him and stood with returning strength. Despite the assurance, Illya’s arm tentatively wrapped around his shoulders and didn’t let go until Napoleon was safely propped up against Rudi’s worktable.  
  
With Napoleon steady and secured, there was a subtle shift in Illya’s shoulders, a tightening of the muscles, and then Rudi was all but thrown into the torture chair, straps hazardously wrapped around the smaller man’s wrists and head.  
  
The second instance was after reclaiming Gaby back from Alexander Vinciguerra.  
  
After having lifted and thrown the remains of a smoldering motorcycle that had previously had him pinned to the ground, and after going toe-to-toe with Alexander with only his strength and a small knife, Illya staggered to the fallen woman. Still recovering from a tire iron to the face, Napoleon could only watch from his un-becoming position in the mud as Illya dropped to his knees beside Gaby and lift her shaking form ever so delicately into his arms.  
  
His hands did not tremble, his eyes did not blaze in their cold fury. His fingers brushed mud and hair from Gaby’s face as she smiled up at him. And, to Napoleon’s astonishment, the great bear of a man smiled back down at Gaby. It was not a vicious show of teeth nor was it a coy smirk associated with one of the many easy smiles kept in Napoleon’s arsenal. This was a real smile: all relief and sincerity.  
  
Clearly KGB’s best agent was going soft, to smile like that. And whose fault was that, Napoleon thought to himself with his own smug smile.  
  
A helicopter was soon descending upon them led by none other than Waverly. The three watched the helicopter land, Napoleon holding up a hand to block the sudden onslaught of wind and Illya curling protectively over Gaby.  
  
With the vehicle landed and field medics jumping out to run towards the three, Illya stiffly rose to his feet to make room for them to crowd around Gaby. She murmured some assurance with a wave of her hand, trying to sit up on her own. Perhaps the medics had been warned by Waverly or had some experience with this British agent already because they let her do it. Illya hovered – or rather loomed, good god, that man was tall – over the fuss, eyes fastened to Gaby until the medics cleared her and started to help her rise to her feet.  
  
Napoleon, fitfully covered from head to foot in dirt, was starting to rise as well, having had quite enough of sitting in the mud that was currently ruining his pants. As he was placing his hands on the ground to push himself up, a large hand extended in front of his face, palm up and fingers spread.  
  
Napoleon looked up at Illya, at the mud-caked cuts on his face, the black burns on his shirts and pants which likely hid seared flesh, and the way Illya’s other arm was positioned stiffly at his chest. Napoleon knew he wasn’t much of a pretty sight either with his hair slicked back with muddy water and his bloodied bruises from getting beat with a tire iron. But, despite his ruffled appearance, Napoleon had actually been a lot luckier in the injury department. Yet the Red Peril was holding out his hand to the American expectantly, soft smile still not quite gone from his lips.  
  
“Up and at ‘em, Cowboy,” Illya said, the saying rather amusing in the man’s thick accent.  
  
Napoleon returned the smile, an oddly genuine one of his own. He took the offered hand and tried not to let Illya take all his weight as he was lifted to feet, only the smallest grimace of pain registering on the larger man’s face.  
  
“And where are we off to, Peril?” Napoleon asked, releasing Illya’s hand. He took a step forward to follow where the medics were guiding Gaby to a makeshift first-aid station beside the helicopter. When he stumbled, a firm hand caught his elbow and Illya was at his side. “Perhaps back to that lovely hotel in Rome? They had a fine selection of wines I would quite like to celebrate our victory with.”  
  
“Drinking now would not be best plan,” Illya responded matter-of-factly. Gaby was seated and had a blanket wrapped around her. Waverly was trading words with her quietly, his back to them as the medics hurried back to lead Illya and Napoleon to the helicopter.  
  
“Pardon me, my friend, but drinking is always a good plan.”  
  
“Not when you are bleeding.”  
  
“Numbs the pain.”  
  
“Makes you bleed more. I’d say you’ve lost enough already, yes?”  
  
The medics had surrounded them and were examining and prodding the two as they took their positions on either side of Gaby. Waverly ambled away, a communication device to his ear. Gaby smiled up at both of them as they received fast aid and their own blankets.  
  
“Then what would your plan be?” Napoleon asked, tossing the blanket aside and picking up a white cloth to wipe at his face.  
  
“Recover,” Illya answered.  
  
Napoleon let out a scoff and looked up at Illya, only lifting a brow to show his surprise at again seeing the great Red Peril exhibiting proof of tenderness. Illya was close to Gaby, smiling down at her again as she shifted the blanket around her. One hand was caressing her shoulder.  
  
“Always the life of the party, aren’t you?” He looked away to watch Waverly come up to them, apologetic smile on the older man’s face.  
  
It was with great disappoint that, after everything, they weren’t done yet and Victoria was currently making her getaway with the real bomb. There was even some disappoint that, after everything, Napoleon Solo still wasn’t free of his obligations to the state and that he was now officially, permanently, paired up with Illya Kuryakin. But that disappoint was short-lived at the prospect of still being able to work with Illya and Gaby. With this new information came Napoleon’s self-appointed challenge to catch every rare display of tenderness the Red Peril had to offer. Every display that dissolved the iron mask on the Russian face to leave in its wake something so incredibly and wonderfully human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Green Flash and Thundersnow as mentioned above are true and beautiful natural phenomena. Some of the captured footage is absolutely gorgeous.
> 
> This is just the prologue to set the stage, if you will. I must warn you though: I have never been able to write something short, sweet, and to the point. All of my chapters will be longer that your typical 5+ things fic. Sorry bout that.
> 
> Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated as are any comments/questions you may wish to leave behind.


	2. Alcohol and Splints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really just an excuse to have Illya pick up and carry Napoleon around.

“Join us, Peril,” Napoleon drawled from where he lay sprawled out on the couch.  
  
Gaby hiccupped, laughed, and filled hers and Napoleon’s wineglasses with the rich red of an expensive wine. “Where did you even find this year?” she mumbled to herself, squinting at the year printed on the bottle’s label. Then in a louder voice said, “Illya get in here before we drink it all.”  
  
“I do not drink,” came a very terse reply from the single bedroom.  
  
“You know the rules, Peril.”  
  
“They are your rules, Cowboy. I had no part in making them.”  
  
“That was rather the point.”  
  
“Boys, the wine and I are trying to breathe in peace.”  
  
Gaby had the wine bottle tucked against her chest and she affectionately rubbed her cheek along the frosted neck, smearing its condensation and dampening the gauze Illya had strapped along her jawline. She picked up her glass and took of sip of the rich liquid, practically purring as the drink slid effortlessly down her throat.  
  
“Damn you, Napoleon,” she cooed into her glass, hot breath fogging the crystal.  
  
Napoleon’s head lolled for a moment as he tried to locate the origin of Gaby’s voice and then his eyes, bright and glossy from drink, finally found hers. He smiled at her, the expression cat-like. “Good?”  
  
“Amazing,” Gaby answered. “How’d you even manage to get a Chateau in Istanbul?”  
  
Napoleon picked up his own glass and twirled the contents for a moment. He winked at Gaby. “A thief never reveals his secrets.”  
  
“So you stole it?” came Illya’s judgmental voice, still from the bedroom. Napoleon felt the need to at least look wounded by the obvious inflection in the question that proved just how unsurprised Illya was at the prospect.  
  
“I’m sorry, Peril, but you can’t take part of a conversation if you are not even present in the same room.”  
  
“I can hear you just fine from in here, Cowboy. I do not need to be in there.”  
  
“Eavesdropping is not the same as participating.”  
  
“Jus’ get in here, Illya.”  
  
Napoleon wasn’t sure if it was Gaby’s direct order or perhaps Napoleon’s quips that finally did convince Illya into leaving the bedroom and coming out to join them in the small common room of his hotel room, but Napoleon figured it was a shared success and lifted his glass in a salute to Gaby. It was Gaby’s turn to wink and she downed her glass.  
  
“Ah, there you are, Peril,” Napoleon beamed, now raising his glass to him in greeting. “About time. You missed the cognac, I’m afraid, but there’s plenty of wine left.”  
  
Illya looked as irritated as usual with a deep frown and brows pulled low over his eyes. He held himself in his ever-rigid stature, shoulders seemingly one mass of tense muscle. Unlike his partners who had stripped down to their undershirts, Illya was still dressed in his typical black turtleneck. Maybe taking off that brown jacket was the Russian’s way of stripping down.  
  
“What's he doin' in there anyway?” Gaby asked, words slurring. Her face was looking slightly more flushed with red decorating her cheeks.  
  
“Packing,” Illya all but snarled. He glowered down at the empty bottle of cognac and the two used tumblers beside it. Gaby’s faded lipstick lined the top of one of them. A third empty tumbler and wineglass had been reserved for him but the moment the alcohol opened, Illya had retreated to his room.  
  
His glare snapped up to Napoleon and he made no attempt to veil the disapproval etched in his face. “Something the two of you should be doing. Or did you forget we leave come morning?”  
  
Napoleon waved him away, completely immune to the daggers aimed his way. Gaby didn’t even seem to notice Illya had come into the room. “Let us relax for once, Peril. We’ve earned it.”  
  
Illya seemed to deflate slightly at this truth. They most certainly had earned a chance to put up their feet and take it easy. The mission in Istanbul had been successful but no one had escaped unscathed.  
  
Napoleon was currently numb to a broken leg. He had taken a rather large leap of faith from the top of a three foot building and into a filled dumpster. He would have made it perfectly fine too if their mark hadn’t jumped after him and grabbed hold. He had fallen badly, the leg hitting the dumpster and it had snapped cleanly. Their mark had escaped and Illya and Gaby had to literally fish Napoleon out of the trash. Illya had declared him out of the game but Gaby had simply thrust a gun into his hands and told him to get on with it.  
  
Now his leg – splinted by Illya as they were encouraged not to seek professional medical attention from any of the local hospitals, just in case – lay stretched out before him. He was nestled up in the gap between the back of the couch and the armrest. At some point early in the night, Illya had pushed some pillows behind his back and the comfort dissuaded Napoleon from any other movement other than to drink from his glass.  
  
Gaby’s arm was in a makeshift sling made from strips of her jacket. Though her arm wasn’t thoroughly broken, the fracture from when some goon – who will be likely drinking from a straw for the rest of his life – swung a pipe at her was enough to make Illya uncomfortable with her running around without some support. At some distress from Gaby, he ripped up her jacket and set the arm in place as carefully as he could. It didn’t stop her from being their lookout and sniping down enemies that got too close to where Illya had cornered their mark.  
  
Napoleon doubted she felt any pain now what with the way she was lounging in the padded chair across from Napoleon, belly warm with cognac and wine. She had her legs tucked up close to her chest and the wrapped arm that rested there, bare feet tapping to some unknown music playing in her head. The wine bottle was secured between her knees.  
  
Illya was the only lucky one to avoided getting any broken bones, but not for lack of trying. Underneath that turtleneck were several stitches from a knife that came too close to his kidneys. He had bandaged several similar cuts, including one bullet graze along his arm. Napoleon imagined he had some pretty impressive bruising at his ribs as well. But for all his wounds, Illya pushed passed the pain and carried the mission through to the end without complaining or wavering in his strength.  
  
It was about the time when Illya was helping them up the stairs that Napoleon had his brilliant epiphany. Illya had one partner clinging to each of his shoulders, his arms around their waists, and he practically carried them both (good god, that man was strong) back to his hotel room – he claimed it would be easier for him to keep an eye on his partners and their wounds. Napoleon waited until Illya had carefully lowered them onto their respected chairs, laying Napoleon’s leg out flat; tightening the sling around Gaby’s arm, and then left the room to report in to Waverly.  
  
When Illya was satisfactorily out of earshot, Napoleon leaned in towards the grimacing Gaby and shared his idea: from this mission on, the team would enjoy a full bottle of alcohol for every broken, or fractured, bone received out on the field. Gaby had agreed instantly.  
  
With the rules in place (including but not limited to: the person with the broken bone choosing the alcohol which was to be consumed by the group), Napoleon had made his own personal call to acquire Gaby’s wine and Gaby had sweetly asked Illya to fetch her a bottle of cognac from the market. When Illya returned, he had nearly shot the delivery boy who was in the act of handing the wine over to Gaby.  
  
Needless to say, Illya was not impressed by the pact and had chosen instead to start packing the few things he had in order to be ready to leave on the first flight Waverly had booked them out of Istanbul.  
  
“Join us, Illya,” Gaby enthused, noticing Illya at last.  
  
“You will not be able to wake in the morning,” Illya sighed, the edge gone from his voice. He gently took the wineglass that threatened to slip from Gaby’s fingers and placed it on the coffee table.  
  
“Killjoy.” Gaby pursed her lips at him in a pout. “You can just carry me to the plane.”  
  
Illya huffed what might have been a laugh and the tightness around his eyes caused by the last few stressful days, softened. Finally softened and those icy blue orbs began to thaw. Perhaps, Napoleon thought, the great Red Peril was capable of chipping the ice off those broad shoulders. Perhaps he could finally relax.  
  
Watching Illya coil tighter and tighter into a trembling spring about to snap in two if not released had not been enjoyable for Napoleon to witness. The mission had run long and every day had brought a new injury, fresh pain to someone in their small team. Fury against those that had shot at Napoleon and threatened Gaby increased within the larger man until Napoleon was sure Illya would snap the neck of anyone who even looked at them oddly.  
  
Honestly, it all made him wonder when he and Gaby had become so important to Illya. When Illya had put the burden of protecting his partners at any cost upon his own shoulders. Not that Napoleon or Gaby wouldn’t do the same for him, put Illya took it personally whenever they were hurt, as if it was his fault, as if he wasn’t good enough to stop it.  
  
That was why Napoleon had hoped Illya would join them in their drinking. Although the hangover in the morning might make him consider jumping from another rooftop, the alcohol had made him forget the ache in his leg. More importantly, he and Gaby had laughed. They had smiled and joked. It felt good. It would have been better with Illya but beggars couldn’t be choosers, he supposed. Not if he was begging for a miracle.  
  
Gaby made a protesting sound and Napoleon dragged himself out of his reverie. Illya had taken the bottle from her.  
  
“’m not done,” Gaby whined, arms reaching for the bottle though her body made no move to uncurl from the chair. “I hav ta fin’sh, that’s the rule.” She was clearly having trouble keeping her eyes open and her forehead landed on her knees with a heavy thunk.  
  
“You’ve had enough,” Illya murmured, reaching down to scoop her up effortlessly into his arms. Gaby’s nuzzled up against him, arms automatically encircling his neck. She buried her face against his throat.  
  
“The rules,” she repeated, voice muffled.  
  
“I’ll finish for you,” Illya promised. “I have not had my drink after all.”  
  
This seemed to pacify Gaby as she nodded. With Gaby secured in his arms and murmuring jumbled words into his throat, Illya turned his head to look at Napoleon. His eyes were still soft and pleasantly calm. The stress and worry Napoleon feared would permanently scar his face had smoothed. Napoleon rather liked how handsome Illya looked without the weight of the world on his shoulders.  
  
“You will sleep here tonight,” Illya announced quietly. Gaby stirred in his arms, frowning at the voice that was too loud for her. Illya turned his lips against her ear and spoke something too soft for Napoleon to hear but Gaby relaxed again.  
  
Napoleon’s hazy smile faded as Illya’s eyes returned to him.  
  
“I’m fine, I can make it back to my room,” Napoleon said quickly, tongue tripping over the words he strove to make coherent.  
  
Illya merely shook his head. “You are as bad a liar as you are spy,” he said. “You cannot walk and I am done carrying you for the day. Besides, if something happened, you would be unable to act in your state.”  
  
“What state? I’m fine.”  
  
“You are drunk. You are staying here.”  
  
“I need to pack.”  
  
“Solo.”  
  
Napoleon shut his mouth, cutting off his next poor excuse. He was better at this whole, making excuses thing, he really was. It’s just that too much drink often dulled his silver tongue and made his charm sporadic – often too heavy; rarely too weak. Yes he often drank on the job with those he was seducing, but that was the job. He didn’t drink to get drunk on the job. The pain pills he had taken for his leg likely weren’t helping either. Since when were their two Illya’s frowning down at him?  
  
Illya sighed, perhaps a tad too heavily for Napoleon’s liking, and then he walked past Napoleon towards the bedroom. “I will be back. Do not move.”  
  
“Funny,” Napoleon said in a voice devoid of humor. He almost missed the subtle lifting of Illya’s lips. Had he not craned his head around to follow Illya, he would have.  
  
The bedroom waited directly behind the couch and, from Napoleon’s current position, he could see most of it, including half the bed.  
  
It wasn’t as lush as his room in Rome but it was comfortable enough, perhaps too small for Illya’s hulking frame, but Gaby and Napoleon had no complaints for their rooms, which would be empty tonight apparently.  
  
Napoleon watched as Illya carried Gaby towards the bed, rocking her ever so gently and, was he humming? No that was probably the alcohol swimming in Napoleon’s ears and across his vision.  
  
With one arm keeping Gaby pressed against his chest, he used the other to peel back the blankets. Then he lowered Gaby into the bed with a tremendous degree of care that left Napoleon astonished. Illya’s hand went to tentatively ease Gaby’s head onto the pillow. Had she been a doll made of the finest porcelain, Illya could not have treated her more gingerly.  
  
But then, Napoleon couldn’t really be surprised. Since their first meeting it seemed, Illya had treated Gaby gently in every way: touches, glances, words. Clearly the Red Peril honed as one of the finest weapons the KGB had to offer was more human than Napoleon first thought.  
  
Illya covered Gaby with blankets and rubbed a thumb across her forehead. Napoleon saw his lips move but he did not hear the words they made. Then Illya straightened and disappeared to the other side of the room. There was the sound of hands rummaging through drawers and the soft rustle of sheets before Illya walked back into the common room, attention already on Napoleon.  
  
“Well, you’ve done that before,” Napoleon noted with an easy smile.  
  
“In Rome yes,” Illya replied with similar ease. Napoleon always wanted it to be this easy talking with the Russian man, no need for barriers to hide truth behind and no shields to protect from sarcastic barbs. “Our chop shop girl cannot hold her liquor as well as she thinks.”  
  
“To our chop shop girl,” Napoleon said, raising his glass in a toast. It may have been a goad to get Illya to drink something but Illya didn’t ignore him.  
  
Pouring wine into the untouched glass – emptying the bottle as promised – Illya lifted his glass towards Napoleon. “And to the terrible spy,” he added. He touched his glass to Napoleon’s with a lovely chime. They drank together and set down the used glasses with the others. Napoleon really hoped he would remember some of tonight.  
  
“And to our Red Peril,” he concluded with a smile, “the reason I’m still standing here tonight.”  
  
“You should not stand. Your leg is broken.”  
  
“The reason I will be standing later.”  
  
“Not for a few months, I think. Not on your own at least.”  
  
“That still counts as later. Christ, Peril, I’m trying to make a toast. Stop using your literal to interrupt.”  
  
“Apologies, Cowboy.”  
  
Had Napoleon not been quite as drunk as he was, he would have felt elation at seeing mischief shining in those too blue eyes. As it was, he was fairly irked.  
  
“As you should be,” he remarked, arms crossing over his chest.  
  
He blinked when Illya was suddenly standing in front of him (jeez, for a rigid mass of muscle the man could move with the stealth of a cat).  
  
“What?” Napoleon asked suspiciously.  
  
“You will sleep in the bedroom,” Illya said matter-of-factly and then he bundled Napoleon up into his arms as easily as he had Gaby, Napoleon’s splinted leg sticking out awkwardly.  
  
“Hold on,” Napoleon stuttered, a sense of vertigo making his stomach roil. He took a fistful of Illya’s sweater and hung on for all he was worth as if afraid he’d be torn away by the same sensation currently making his vision dance.  
  
Napoleon thanked whatever deity was listening that Illya went still, the urgency in Napoleon’s voice enough to give him pause.  
  
“If you are going to be sick, I will drop you,” Illya said, but apprehension made his voice tight.  
  
“Just moving a little fast is all,” Napoleon panted. He swallowed several times, a sour taste in his mouth. “Most people buy me dinner before taking me to the bedroom.” He said it with a pained grin, trying to mask sickness with sarcasm.  
  
Illya wasn’t buying it. He started moving again but with cautious, deliberate steps, keeping Napoleon steady against him. Napoleon allowed his head to fall onto the broad shoulder and closed his eyes against the shifting scenery. Illya was warm.  
  
“You will feel better after sleep,” Illya offered.  
  
“I can take the couch,” Napoleon said with a shudder, turning his head into Illya’s throat to block the light that was suddenly to bright.  
  
If Illya was affected by the touch, he did not show it except for a minute tightening of his grip around Napoleon. “I have already made a bed for you on floor. It will be better for your leg to stay flat.”  
  
“Where will you sleep?” His voice was weaker, softer, tired. He was so tired.  
  
“I will take couch.”  
  
“Oh so you get the cushion and I get the carpet.”  
  
“I still need to pack. I do not want to disturb you. It is best in bedroom.”  
  
Napoleon couldn’t argue there. The moment Illya stepped into the quiet, dark room, Napoleon felt better. He managed to crack his eyes open to see Gaby in a deep sleep on the bed. Beside it on the floor Illya had laid out several blankets and pillows. The single window was open and a refreshing breeze wafted into the room, quickly cooling the sweat that had beaded on Napoleon’s brow. He murmured some affirmation against Illya’s shoulder but did not know what words he actually said.  
  
A rumble in Illya’s chest indicated a chuckle and Napoleon felt a smile spread once more across his face. “Thought you said you weren’t going to carry me.”  
  
“Didn’t want to wait for you to limp in.”  
  
Napoleon huffed out a laugh and then he was lying on the floor – with blessedly plush carpeting – and Illya was bracing his leg between several spare cushions. He then tucked a blanket under his chin. Napoleon’s eyes slid closed as a thumb brushed the hair from his forehead.  
  
“You’re too good to me, Peril.”  
  
“Sleep well, Cowboy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I assume Gaby is a light-weight. She had, what, two maybe three drinks and then was dancing around, tackling people, and falling asleep on Illya. I'm sure Napoleon is much more experience but surely two bottles of alcohol would be enough to make him drunk.
> 
> These 5 things are turning into oneshots. Longer than I anticipated oneshots. Apologies again.


	3. Watches and Gondolas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed all the fluff in the first chapter because it kinda goes downhill from here. Hence the teen rating. Yeah, whumpage is just around the corner. Any chance I can get to rough up the boys a bit.

Somehow Napoleon had managed to coax Illya away from his chessboard and out of the hotel into a perfectly warm Italian evening.  
  
Illya had put up a fight, of course. The man seemed determined to fight with anything, whether it be a person or an idea. He had argued that they stay in; that they were still on a mission and couldn’t risk getting caught outside of character. Napoleon had been insistent in his beatific descriptions of the color of Venice’s canals in the dying sunlight. Naturally, he was equally insistent in his complaints that Illya never let the team have fun or take the opportunity to go out and explore the wondrous places Waverly sent them. Gaby had, ultimately, been the deciding factor by calmly explaining to her boys that if they did not leave and give her the peace with which to do her paperwork, then she would turn on the record player and force them to dance with her.  
  
Before Napoleon could volunteer to take the first dance, Illya had grabbed him round the arm and forcibly dragged him out of the hotel room, slamming the door behind them.  
  
“You are the Red Peril,” Napoleon had pointed out with amusement as he hurried to keep up with Illya’s dash down the stairs. “How do you come by the fear of dancing?”  
  
“You have not danced with her,” Illya had shot over his shoulder and Napoleon had no response to that (or least not one that wouldn’t earn him a black eye).  
  
Once outside the hotel and in the warm glow of sunset, Napoleon had started an easy walk in a random direction. He wasn’t all that surprised when Illya fell in step beside him, hands in his pockets, shoulders hitched up, and looking completely out of his element. Then again, relaxation never was Illya’s strong suit, choosing instead to let Napoleon lead the way.  
  
So Napoleon did. In no specific direction he led the way, only happy to be outside in Venice where the sun was warm; the air was cool. The soft sound of water gentle lapping up against stone echoed from all directions. Trickling music flittered to them on the wind, the deep resonating chord of a viola mixing with the longing call of a trombone. People bustled around them (making Illya stiffen and draw closer to Napoleon) and the unintelligible babble of talk ebbed and flowed as they passed. Gondolas skimmed silently through the Venetian canals carrying delighted locals and tourists through the darkening water.  
  
Napoleon took it all in, basking in the life and beauty of it all. Dressed down in a simple white dress shirt and black slacks, the collar open; free of buttons and tie, he was more than happy to return impressed stares and giggling flattery with his own smiles, making the woman he passed slip into excited, hushed whispers behind his back. He followed the curving road under an archway and onto a paved road that opened to the canals, the water swirling lazily inches from his feet.  
  
Illya was oppressively silent at his side, creating a tangible black cloud that threatened to push out the natural joy flooding the nightlife of Venice. Clad in his usual black shirt and brown coat with his hat pulled low over his face, Illya looked as imposing as ever, forcing those walking towards them to inexplicitly veer off the path and back into the safety of the crowds. Even the drivers of the gondolas seemed to deliberately steer their boats to the other side of the canal as they passed.  
  
It was all rather dampening Napoleon’s mood.  
  
When he could take no more, and when a rather curvaceous woman with full lips and red hair turned off the path with not even one flirtatious look in Napoleon’s direction, Napoleon decided he was done.  
  
He turned suddenly on Illya, taking the man by the arms and pushing him under an arch, the shadows swallowing them up with ease. Yet even in the diminishing light, Illya’s eyes bore into Napoleon, bright and clear.  
  
“Explain, Solo,” Illya growled, adequately warning Napoleon of the precious seconds the slighter man had before Illya acted accordingly.  
  
As usual, Napoleon did not heed this warning.  
  
“Is it too much to ask, Peril,” he said words crisp but without heat, “for a simple walk through the city without you treating it like a punishment?”  
  
“We are walking, just like you wanted.”  
  
“No, I’m out for a walk. You look like your marching to your own funeral.”  
  
“I do not understand why this concerns you.”  
  
“Look at you. You’re still acting like we’re on a mission. Like we’re about to sabotage some poor woman’s bakery.”  
  
“We are on a mission.”  
  
“Yes,” Napoleon said with a terribly frustrated sigh, hand going to pinch the bridge of his nose. “But we are allowed some time off, some time to relax and mingle and enjoy ourselves.”  
  
“I thought you were.”  
  
“I’m trying. But it’s very hard when you, my Iron Curtain, are blocking me off from the rest of the city.”  
  
“If you do not like how I walk, I will go.”  
  
“No,” Napoleon said quickly, catching the man by the arm again as Illya turned to leave, “that’s not what I-” He huffed out an exasperated sigh and closed his eyes for a moment to regain control of the situation. Illya remained still, watching him with those impossibly blue eyes.  
  
“Although you often make me question myself why, I do enjoy your company and I’d prefer to keep it. But I would rather hope you can enjoy yourself in mine as well.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
It was spoken quietly but with the same ease as saying the night was warm. Napoleon met Illya’s gaze, for once a smile not plastered to his face.  
  
“I would not be walking with you now if I did not,” Illya supplied, lips turning up ever so slightly at the corners.  
  
“You certainly have a peculiar way of showing it,” Napoleon recovered, his own lips curving up, the light reaching his eyes this time.  
  
“It is the Russian way,” Illya amended with a shrug.  
  
Napoleon let out a laugh and slapped fondly at the arm he had been holding. Illya let out an amused huff.  
  
“Well, does the Russian way allow you to lose that scowl of yours for the night?”  
  
“Maybe not the night,” Illya replied, amusement still glittering in his eyes, “but perhaps until our return.”  
  
“I’ll take what I can get,” Napoleon conceded with his own shrug. He turned back the way they had come, a warm breeze flowing under the arch and tousling his hair.  
  
He did not take a step forward when he saw a man in typical Italian garb leaning against the wall at the end of archway, effectively blocking the way back to the water. A gondola was waiting in the water just behind the man: a convenient escape route.  
  
A hand at his back made him turn his head marginally to slide a sidelong glance at the other end of the archway. Another man, this one noticeably younger with a clean shaven face, lounged there, similarly blocking the way back into the bustle of the city. This one held a long gondola pole, a useful tool to obstruct the exit and force the two men forward towards the water.  
  
“Permission to scowl,” Illya muttered to Napoleon with feigned nonchalance.  
  
“Granted,” Napoleon answered and, despite the situation, appreciated Illya’s attempt at humor. He was also appreciative of the noticeable defensive shift in Illya. He could practically sense the tensing of the man into the deadly weapon that he was. He glanced down at the hand curled into a fist at Illya’s side. The taller man still kept one hand at Napoleon’s back, the touch firm but barely indenting the white shirt.  
  
“Well, gentlemen,” the man without the weapon greeted cordially, “glad your little spat has been resolved.”  
  
“For the time being, yes,” Napoleon answered with a dazzling smile, charm working at full capacity. “Hate to start another though. They are truly exhausting.”  
  
“I bet,” the man concurred, eyeing Illya suspiciously. “So,” he continued with a cheerful clap of his hands, “since I’d hate to exhaust the gentleman further, just hand over your wallets, and my friend and I will be out of your hair.”  
  
“Do you recognize them, Peril?” Napoleon asked, eyes still on the man in front of him.  
  
“No,” came the curt response, Illya’s focus on the man behind them.  
  
“Just simple thieves then?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Pity. I was hoping for a peaceful stroll for once. Perhaps we can encourage these upstanding men to reconsider their professions.”  
  
The hand still on Napoleon’s back tightened. “After you, Cowboy.”  
  
The man with the gondola pole gave it a hard smack against the wall to reclaim their attention. Clearly these thieves did not like being ignored.  
  
“Luca, if you would be so kind as to motivate our fine friends,” the first man said, steel in his voice and smile.  
  
The one named Luca gave the gondola pole a quick spin and then pointed one end at Napoleon and Illya. This end had been fitted with a single metal point, as small and fine as a nail, long and sharp.  
  
Illya’s hand was gone from Napoleon’s back and instead Napoleon felt his shoulders bump up against the impenetrable wall that was Illya’s back. The master thief didn’t bother glancing back at the weapon now aimed at his partner’s chest. Instead, his smile turned sharp as he stared back at the other man now standing directly in the middle of the archway.  
  
“Your wallets, please,” the Italian ordered.  
  
Illya was a coiled spring behind him, all muscle and adrenaline, ready to launch.  
  
“Hate to be rude, but we decline,” Napoleon answered wryly.  
  
Something snapped in the man’s vicious smile. Perhaps he wasn’t used to being denied.  
  
“Antonio?” came Luca’s voice questioningly from behind Napoleon. So Napoleon was right.  
  
“Your victims don’t typically put up a fight, do they,” Napoleon asked in a tone that conveyed it was not a question.  
  
Antonio’s face grew red.  
  
“Well, we do. Sort of a living now, actually.”  
  
“Bastardo!” Antonio roared as he lunged at Napoleon. A hand shot out and grabbed Napoleon’s shoulder roughly from behind and then he was harshly pulled back out of the middle of the path. A good thing too because just as his back hit the bricks, a pointed gondola pole cut through the air where he had been standing.  
  
Antonio gave a yelp and dived out of the way as Luca stumbled forward on his momentum. Before he could correct himself, Illya was on him, trying to yank the pole away and lashing out with kicks strong enough to crack a knee.  
  
That left Antonio to Napoleon. Napoleon did not fancy himself with physical hand-to-hand combat. He was a thief. He had trained himself to maneuver around dangerous situations and to avoid dangerous people. His honeyed words were capable of talking down almost anyone ready for a fight. Well anyone who wasn’t so blinded with rage as Antonio was now. Luckily, Napoleon did know a few moves and had learned a few more by watching (and being attacked by) Illya.  
  
Antonio threw a punch at Napoleon’s face but his stance predicted the attack before Antonio could even lift a fist. Napoleon easily side-stepped the attack and kicked Antonio forward, using the man’s momentum against him.  
  
“On you left, Peril” Napoleon called amiably.  
  
Illya instantly released the pole Luca had wrapped himself around in his attempt to prevent the Russian from taking it. Illya jumped to his right just as Antonio continued to sail forward. Luca had only enough time to safely straighten the pole before Antonio crashed into him.  
  
Illya glanced back at Napoleon who smiled back triumphantly. “Still love my work?”  
  
Illya waggled one hand at Napoleon in a so-so motion that drew a rather unimpressed frown from Napoleon. Just for that, he wasn’t going to warn Illya about the oncoming Antonio.  
  
There was some satisfaction in seeing Antonio dive at Illya, arms wrapped around his middle, and the two of them go crashing down. The two men grunted as they each tried to stay atop the other, throwing wild punches at whatever exposed flesh they could find. There was a sickening crunch and a howl from Antonio as he was thrown off Illya. Illya sat up and shot a glance at Antonio, now cradling a broken arm, before returning his attention to Luca in time to see the younger man bring down the pole in a downward strike. Illya instinctively brought his arm up to shield himself from the blow.  
  
There was a shatter of glass and a splintering of wood and then it was eerily silent except for the whimpered sniveling of Antonio. The gondola pole had snapped at the point where it had collided with Illya’s watch. Glass littered Illya’s legs and the cobblestones like droplets of shimmering mist.  
  
His watch was broken, the glass gone, the face smashed, the hands askew.  
  
Luca had frozen, the remainder of his pole still hovering where it had hit Illya. He seemed afraid to move, afraid even to breathe. Napoleon could understand why. Illya had been looking down in shock at his father’s decimated watch. But now, his eyes slowly slid up to Luca’s face and, though Napoleon could not see Illya’s face, the look of absolute terror on Luca’s was clear. The boy had awoken a monster, and he knew it.  
  
Illya’s hands were shaking; his breaths came out short and hard, every muscle in his powerful form stretched taut in the preparation, the impulse, to destroy. Napoleon could feel the waves of fury crashing down over the Russian even from where he stood.  
  
“Run,” Napoleon instructed the boy, slight panic slipping into the word.  
  
Luca didn’t wait to be told twice. He threw the pole down, turned on his heel, and sprinted down the archway. Illya was already on his feet and running after the younger man, easily gaining ground with his long legs.  
  
“Peril!” Napoleon called after him, running to catch up, to save the Italian man from the wrath of the KGB agent.  
  
Illya ignored him, or perhaps didn’t hear him. Couldn’t hear him.  
  
What few people were caught in the way quickly dived out of it as the three men raced through the alleyway. Luca made a sharp turn, pushing against the tight confines of the alley he had chosen to help him move faster, anything to get away from the raging thing behind him. But Illya was faster. Before the younger man could slip down another alley, Illya grabbed the back of his coat, spun and pulled, throwing the man nearly into Napoleon’s legs. Napoleon leapt over the sprawled and gasping body and boldly moved in front of Illya.  
  
“That’s enough, Kuryakin,” he said forcefully.  
  
Illya snarled at him, rage twisting his features. There was no recognition in his eyes. With one arm, he pushed Napoleon aside and into the closest wall. Napoleon twisted his body to hit the wall with his side, protecting his head with his arm. He gave a grunt of discomfort and pushed off the wall to grab at Illya’s arm. Another swipe of the larger man’s hand brought Napoleon down like a bear swatting at a fly.  
  
Illya bent down over Luca, placing one knee on the younger man’s chest to pin him to the ground. His large hands encircled Luca’s throat and he squeezed. Luca’s eyes bulged and he gave a strangled choke. Illya stared down at him, eyes wild, teeth bared.  
  
Then Napoleon was on his back, arms wrapping around his neck in a chokehold.  
  
“Calm down!” Napoleon shouted into Illya’s ear. “Get a hold of yourself!”  
  
Illya gave a mighty roar and stood up, carrying Napoleon with him. He threw himself backwards into the wall with all the force of a crushing car. Napoleon’s back collided with the wall, hard, and his head snapped back against the brick with a loud crack. Stars dancing across his vision, he gave a pained gasp and his arms went weak around Illya’s neck, slipping down over the man’s broad shoulders.  
  
Illya stepped forward but brought an arm up to stop Napoleon’s slide down the wall. The arm slammed against Napoleon’s throat like an iron bar, keeping him trapped. Napoleon’s hands pushed uselessly against Illya as the Russian again turned his attention to Luca. The younger man had already tottered to his feet and was staggering back the way he had run.  
  
In one fluid movement, Illya reached into his coat and pulled out his gun. Of course he would bring his gun on a pleasant stroll through Venice. Napoleon would have groaned in indignation if he had any breath to spare.  
  
“No,” Napoleon ground out and shoved Illya’s aiming arm. The gun fired but the bullet went wild, missing Luca who quickly ducked into the first alleyway.  
  
Illya gave a savage growl at having his prey escape and instead pressed the mouth of the gun to Napoleon’s temple. He leaned forward, adding pressure to Napoleon’s throat. Napoleon struggled and gasped, trying to blink away the intruding dots and now the creeping black at the edge of his vision. His hands clung to Illya’s arm.  
  
“Stop,” he said, the word coming out more as a strained wheeze. He tried to lock eyes with Illya but was finding it increasingly hard to focus on anything. “Illya.”  
  
The arm at his throat went rigid for a split-second and then suddenly the pressure was gone. Napoleon took a desperate breath and then he was sliding down the wall, coughing and gulping down air. He hit the ground and toppled over to curl up miserably on his side, trembling and taking greedy breaths that burned down his bruised throat. The darkness had receded from his vision but the damned black spots swarmed and covered everything, refusing to be chased away by his rapid blinking.  
  
God damn it, everything hurt and he was tired and sore and the ground was cold and hard and this was Venice for fuck’s sake: he should be out enjoying the fine food, fine music, and fine women, not being a crumbled ball of shaking limbs on the ground. What deity had it out for him; enjoyed watching him suffer? He wanted to shoot them.  
  
“Solo?”  
  
The voice had been so soft, Napoleon had barely heard it over his own petulant thoughts and panting breaths. He cracked open blue eyes to look at who had spoken.  
  
Standing directly across from him, backed up against the wall parallel, was Illya. The larger man stared down at him with wide eyes, a look of horror on his flushed face. His shoulders were trembling, but not with rage. His hands, devoid now of a gun, were pressed up against the brick as if he were trying to open some entry and be swallowed up by the stone. His father’s watch glimmered brokenly in the light from lamps now burning bright in the dark.  
  
“Just… give me a… a moment,” Napoleon said, trying to put some strength behind his wisp of a voice.  
  
Illya nodded mutely, swallowing thickly.  
  
Napoleon allowed his eyes to slip closed again, focusing on inhaling and exhaling in controlled proportions. When he felt his breathing calm and his hands lessen in their trembling, he opened his eyes again, fully aware of the ache of his throat. Illya hadn’t moved but was now looking down at his hands, the horror still running rampart across his features. He inhaled sharply when he noticed Napoleon’s gaze was again upon him. He didn’t quite cower away from Napoleon’s gaze, the man was too big to cower, but he definitely looked as though he wanted to be anywhere rather than here.  
  
A sulking Illya was worse than an irritating one, Napoleon decided.  
  
“C’mere,” Napoleon said, managing to sigh.  
  
Illya was frozen, eyes staring unblinkingly at Napoleon. Somehow he seemed to have pressed up even more against the wall.  
  
“Help me… sit up,” Napoleon tried again. He licked his lips and swallowed, cringing at the prickle of pain.  
  
Illya’s head bobbed in a quick nod. He took a steadying breath and then cautiously approached Napoleon, footsteps deliberate and soft as if afraid to make any sound that might startle the huddled body of his partner.  
  
“Not gonna bite,” Napoleon teased lightly, a smile stretching slowly across his lips. Illya didn’t laugh.  
  
The Russian carefully lowered into a crouch in font of Napoleon. He flexed his fingers as his tongue darted across his lips, nervous, as if Napoleon were some bomb that might go off if not properly handled. No that wasn’t it. Napoleon peered up at Illya, a furrow forming between perfect brows as he contemplated the larger man. Illya wasn’t looking at him like a bomb but something infinitely more delicate, as if a single touch would break him.  
  
“Rather… uncomfortable down here,” Napoleon supplied, wanting to get his point through that thick Russian head that it was _okay_.  
  
Illya looked more out of place now than he had out on the streets, like he didn’t know what to do. But Napoleon’s pointed stare and lifted brow was enough to set the man in motion. With immense care, Illya slipped one hand under Napoleon’s shoulder and tentatively took Napoleon’s other shoulder with his other hand. Then he slowly started to bring Napoleon upright. Napoleon shut his eyes quickly at the onset of vertigo and the unpleasant pounding of his head. He tensed and felt nausea climb up his throat when his head fell forward limply and his neck strained, but Illya was quick to slip the hand on Napoleon’s shoulder up to catch his lolling head. Face cupped against Illya’s callused palm, Napoleon relaxed again.  
  
When Napoleon was sitting upright, Illya quickly maneuvered his body to sit next to him, their bodies flush. One arm went around Napoleon’s shoulders to secure him and then Napoleon’s head came to rest softly against Illya’s shoulder.  
  
“Better,” Napoleon murmured, appreciating the shoulder that was much softer than cobblestones.  
  
It was quiet for a long moment, Napoleon simply enjoying the sensation of not moving and the way the air traveled unimpeded to his lungs. Illya stayed completely still, his grip so light on Napoleon’s shoulder it was more like his hand was hovering just above it.  
  
“Solo.”  
  
Again, the voice came so soft, Napoleon wondered if it was actually a key change in the music still swirling in the air, or perhaps the sound of a gondola scrapping up against the stone steps to let its patrons off. Yet the rumble against Napoleon’s cheek assured him the word had indeed come from the man sitting beside him.  
  
“You don’t have to,” he said, eyes still closed, voice smooth.  
  
“I am sorry.”  
  
“I know. You didn’t have to say it.”  
  
“Yes I did.”  
  
The hand at his shoulder was shaking again but not tapping as it did in anger.  
  
“I lost control,” Illya continued with shame, more to himself than to Napoleon. “I almost killed that man. I could have killed you.”  
  
“It’s fine, Peril,” Napoleon sighed, slightly disgruntled that his rest was being interrupted. He lifted his head just enough so that his gaze could sluggishly meet Illya’s. “I’m fine. We’ll laugh about this later, I’m sure.”  
  
This clearly was a mistake because the moment the words left Napoleon’s mouth, Illya caught his chin between two fingers and tilted Napoleon’s head up to better reveal the ugly bruise marring the pale skin of his throat. Some emotion Napoleon didn’t have the current capacity to place flickered across Illya’s eyes as the larger man stared at the bruise.  
  
“I did this,” Illya said, voice uncharacteristically raw. His released Napoleon’s chin and his fingers moved as if to touch the bruise.  
  
And in that moment, Napoleon wondered who was truly in more pain.  
  
“I can’t quite say I forgive you yet,” Napoleon said, eyes refusing to release Illya’s. Illya pulled his hand away as if stung; as if his touch could still hurt Napoleon. Napoleon deftly caught the retreating hand with his own. “But I can accept your apology. You’ve held my life in your hands on more than one occasion now and you have yet to let me down. I trust you not to lose control like this again.” He gave Illya’s hand a confirming shake and released it. “Do you?”  
  
Illya seemed to struggle, his jaw working, the muscles in his temple moving with each clench of his jaw. His eyes were so intense, boring into Napoleon’s, looking for the lie. When he found only truth, he bowed his head, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.  
  
“Yes. Because I know you will stop me.”  
  
It was not what Napoleon had been expecting, this complete trust that he would be able to calm the rage in Illya’s heart that has been years in the making. It was rather overwhelming actually. This trust, this lull in Illya’s rigid persona. To think all it took was for Illya to toss Napoleon around for a few minutes. Maybe he should have gotten this out of the way earlier. Would have saved time.  
  
Apparently potential concussions tampered with Napoleon’s otherwise perfected masked disposition because Illya looked back at him and a smile formed behind his eyes.  
  
“You do not think you can do it.”  
  
“I didn’t say that.”  
  
“You can. You have before.”  
  
“Elaborate for me will you. My mind’s a little fuzzy at the moment.”  
  
There was a flash of apology and the amusement was gone from Illya’s eyes as his gaze turned instead to Napoleon’s head and the unseen bump that had formed there. Napoleon waved away the concern.  
  
“Back in Rome,” Illya complied, “when you convinced me not to kill you.”  
  
“Ah yes, what good times we’ve had,” Napoleon said with a dry laugh. “We need to stop making a habit of them. For our health.”  
  
The haze had lifted from Napoleon’s vision and his body had settled into a dull ache, inconvenient but doable. Sitting in the dark Venetian night would not do any favors to him in the long run.  
  
“Speaking of our health, I suggest we return to our hotel now. We’ve been gone long enough as it is and I’d rather not run into any more thieves. I don’t want to see anyone else give the profession such a poor reputation.” Napoleon made to start moving but a singular thought stilled him.  
  
“On second thought,” he decided, “maybe we should camp out here for the night.”  
  
Illya gave a knowing nod, a smile threatening to lift the frown that had seemed to take permanent residence on his face. “Gaby.”  
  
“Will not be happy with us,” Napoleon finished. “Not with the way we look.” He clumsily pushed a hand through his disheveled hair as if to achieve some semblance of normality. “She might not let us out again without supervision after this one.”  
  
“At least you will be able to go out,” Illya retorted dismally. “I will be lucky to see sunrise.”  
  
“Oh, I’ll poor us a few drinks, play some music, hide the knives. It’ll be fine.”  
  
“I do not drink.  
  
“Then give me yours and I’ll call us even.”  
  
Illya made a disbelieving sound. Not that he didn’t believe Napoleon, but more like he certainly didn’t think he deserved it. Napoleon slapped a hand against the Russian’s chest. Illya didn’t argue. Instead he shifted his hold on Napoleon’s shoulder to just under the armpit, fingers splayed against the side of Napoleon’s ribcage. Napoleon lifted the arm between them up and over Illya’s shoulders, taking a fistful of the coat.  
  
“Ready?” Illya asked, eyes again going to Napoleon’s face searchingly, looking for any indication of pain.  
  
“As I’ll ever be,” Napoleon nodded and clenched his jaw in preparation.  
  
“Slowly,” Illya advised.  
  
Napoleon nodded again and as one, the two started to rise, Illya using the wall to keep him steady, arm strong around Napoleon, and Napoleon depending completely on that arm to keep him upright until he could get his feet under him. When they were up, Napoleon leaned heavily on the arm that did not waver in strength around him, tentatively putting his weight on numbed feet.  
  
Wordlessly, they stepped away from the wall together, Illya’s hold on Napoleon firm and surprisingly gentle. They moved at a pace Napoleon could keep and started making their way through the alleys and arches back to the hotel where Gaby was likely waiting none too patiently.  
  
“I’m sorry about your watch,” Napoleon said after a moment. He was glad that he wasn’t breathing too heavily. But then Illya was supporting most of his weight.  
  
“I will fix it,” Illya replied casually, a shrug making Napoleon’s arm rise and fall. “After I take care of you.”  
  
Napoleon almost missed a step. “Not going soft are you, Peril. Hate to have to tell Waverly I ruined you.”  
  
“Impossible. I am Russian. I am incapable of being ‘ruined’.”  
  
That earned a chuckle from Napoleon and – and it could have been a trick of the light – a smile from Illya.  
  
Aside from the bruises, the splitting headache that was sure to come later, and the all-around ache, it was a lovely stroll through Venice with Illya at his side, the image of the two of them deterring others from approaching too close. Napoleon could see some reward in having this tamed bear of a man carefully escort him home.  
  
The relative peace of the night shattered when they returned, however, and Gaby saw them: Napoleon bruised and battered and smiling sheepishly at her from Illya’s side, and Illya looking rather chastised and scared, his broken watch still clasped tight around his wrist. As Gaby worked her questions into a heated, one-sided argument of shouting, Illya lowered Napoleon onto the closest couch and brought him a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to explore a situation where Illya, unwilling, harms Napoleon and suffers his own internal consequences. 
> 
> You should know I truly meant to post this earlier tonight. But then I started watching "Atlantis: The Lost Empire" and I kept telling myself to just get my computer, come back, and update while I watch. Yet I could find no moment to extract myself. No matter how many times I've seen it, every scene in that movie is a treasure.
> 
> Please allow me to take a moment to thank emchelle, RNandSniper, Westi, and alacrity for you assurances that I need not apologize for the length of the text.
> 
> As always, questions, comments, the pointing out of a stray typo are all welcome.
> 
> Hobey-Ho


	4. Gears and Stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an aftermath scene for chapter 3.

He can no longer see the moon through his window from where he is lying on the plush bed. It had already ambled past on its arch through the night sky. But the stars. The stars remained lovely and bright, shining down in the Venetian night with a vigor that was lost to the ever progressing Americas.  
  
Napoleon looked up at these lights, idly tracing patterns between them, eyes roaming from one pinprick to the next until he had met every point in his tapestry.  
  
Yet still he could not sleep.  
  
Though his body was exhausted (and irately reminded him of this fact with every blink of his eyes and rise of his chest), his mind would not rest. It would not even grant him the dignity of answering why he could not sleep nor did it bring a particularly troubling thought to the forefront on which he could focus. No, his mind slipped through events, memories, and exchanged words as rapidly as his eyes connected starts: as soon as he focused on one thought it would spirit away until he could connect with another.  
  
It was frustrating. And that was putting it lightly.  
  
He was tired. He wanted to sleep. His body hurt and suffered from a dull throbbing despite Napoleon using whatever focus he did not give to his restless mind on not moving. He had already learned earlier in the night that even a twitch had the power to send needles of pain down his spine. The bruise at his throat burned as if a cloth dipped in boiling water had been laid out over the tender flesh and his head took every opportunity it could to remind him that, yes, he had hit that wall pretty hard, thank you very much.  
  
The rest of the suite was quiet: Napoleon feigning sleep in his room; Gaby snoring softly from hers directly next to his. And Illya. Well, the suite had come with only two rooms and a common area with couches and a kitchen. Illya had no problem making this his room, more than happy to be able to keep his eye on the door all night, just in case. In all honesty, Napoleon and Gaby had felt infinitely more at ease knowing that there was an Iron Curtain between them and whoever may want to break down their door.  
  
Napoleon had not had the pleasure of rooming with Illya before. He had rather thought the Red Peril would be rattling the windows with his snoring, but not a sound came from beyond Napoleon’s door.  
  
Well it had been a harrowing evening, what with the thieves and Illya almost killing him. Perhaps the man had slipped away into his own fitful sleep.  
  
There was a tinny sound, like the drop of a coin against wood followed by a muffled Russian curse.  
  
Or not.  
  
Tired of being unable to sleep, Napoleon sat up and swung his legs over the bed. He stifled a groan and held his head in his hands a moment. When his vision stopped swimming and when the pounding sound of his blood in his own ears faded, Napoleon stood up. And almost fell back down.  
  
So maybe Illya had been right in warning Napoleon against drinking so much before bed. He had rather been hoping the alcohol would ease him into a numbed sleep. So much for that plan. Well, might as well have the hangover now and get it over with.  
  
He slung one of the hotel robes over his shoulders and - grabbing his emptied glass, a few drudges of dark liquid still trailing at its bottom - Napoleon opened his door.  
  
His next groan came too reflexively to suppress and he instantly turned his face into the crook of his arm to escape the sudden onslaught of light coming from where Illya sat at the table.  
  
“Have some mercy, Peril,” Napoleon hissed just loud enough for the larger man to hear him but not enough to disturb Gaby.  
  
The light, though not turned off, was quickly turned away, leaving Napoleon in shadow. He blinked into his arm a few times, adjusting his eyes to the light that was still too bright for him. If he was smart he would have stepped back into his room right then and bury himself in the blankets of the bed. Sleep would come eventually. Waiting in the dark for sleep would be a blessing compared to staying in the light coming from a small but infuriatingly strong lamp on the table at Illya’s elbow.  
  
Granted, he was a smart man, dare he say brilliant. He just tended to do whatever he wanted in spite of it.  
  
“Just because you don’t drink doesn’t give you the right to punish the rest of us,” Napoleon said sardonically as he stumbled into the room and collapsed on the couch closest to the bottle of scotch that had been left on the coffee table.  
  
“Punishment is often best way to teach a lesson,” came Illya’s somewhat amused voice from somewhere near the origin of light.  
  
“Not one for positive reinforcement, are you?”  
  
“Another one of your American trends, I assume?”  
  
Napoleon gave a humorless laugh as he poured scotch into his glass and took a sip. The burn did no favors for his throat or head.  
  
As adapted as he was going to get in the lit room, Napoleon turned his head to give a sidelong glance to the table behind the couches and parallel the front door. Illya was sitting hunched over in one of the chairs, granting only a side profile to Napoleon. The lamp housing a drop of the sun had its face turned away from where Napoleon sat and its beam coursed down the table and spread towards the door. Illya was leaning slightly towards it, wanting to utilize its light but not wanting to adjust the head. For Napoleon’s sake.  
  
Napoleon looked away, sighed, and took another swallow of his drink. Sometimes the Russian man was so transparent in his careful treatment of his partners that Napoleon wondered why he bothered to hide it all behind a rigid stance and stoic disposition.  
  
“Did I wake you?” Illya asked, eyes focusing on whatever he was working on under the lamplight. Napoleon couldn’t tell what it was from his slouched position on the couch.  
  
“No, I was already awake,” Napoleon answered with another sigh. He pressed the glass against his forehead but it wasn’t nearly cold enough to fight off the headache there.  
  
“Couldn’t sleep?”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
“What else would it be?” And here Illya turned to look at him. With the lamp shining behind him, a few tendrils of light streaking across his face, Illya’s eyes were a spectacular hue of blue. They were blinding, a stark contrast against the black of Illya’s shirt (was that the only color shirt the man had?) and the shadows playing across his face.  
  
Napoleon realized he hadn’t yet answered when Illya’s brow furrowed and he turned in his chair to fully face Napoleon. “Are you alright, Cowboy?”  
  
“Yes, fine,” Napoleon said quickly. He tossed back the rest of his drink and set the glass on the table. Illya looked unconvinced and seemed about to stand. “And what has you up so-” He paused in thought for a moment. “-early?”  
  
“I have been working,” Illya answered, settling back in his chair and returning his attention to whatever was on the table.  
  
“Working,” Napoleon repeated with a raised brow. His skepticism bled through the single word. The subtle shift of Illya’s shoulders; the way his jaw set meant he had heard it perfectly well. “At this ungodly hour, you are working.”  
  
A spark of mischief alighted in Napoleon’s eyes. He slung one arm over the back of the couch and scooped up his glass again to gaze into its empty depths purely to complete his aesthetic pose of domestic tranquility. “Has your ‘work’ required the assistance of more comely company?”  
  
Illya muttered some string of Russian Napoleon couldn’t quite catch. He didn’t respond, choosing instead to keep his focus on what was under the light. Ah, so Napoleon’s jab had closed some door in their conversation. Napoleon had risen from bed to start this conversation; interrupting Illya in whatever task he had started. The least he could do was keep it civil.  
  
“Have you slept at all?”  
  
Illya made a contemplative hum, as if trying to decide if he wanted to continue their dialogue or lapse into a silence to convey that he would ignore Napoleon for the rest of the night if needed. Perhaps it was the softening of Napoleon’s tone, or maybe Illya did want the company and someone to talk to, but Illya did answer – though Napoleon considered for one sinking moment that Illya did so out of guilt for the previous evening more than anything else.  
  
“I guess I could not sleep either.” He shot a pointed brow at Napoleon, mouth almost twisted into some lopsided smirk. “Or something like that.” Napoleon smiled at this display of amnesty and replaced his empty glass on the coffee table.  
  
“Or the ringing in my ears,” Illya grumbled as an after-thought. A minute twitch of his shoulders made Napoleon think that maybe Illya could still hear the shrill shouts of Gaby reprimanding him for hurting Napoleon (a situation Napoleon had managed to diffuse by waving away Gaby’s complaints and claiming that after the third shot of scotch, all would be forgiven).  
  
“So what, pray-tell, are you working on?” Napoleon asked, unable to hide the grin in his voice. “As I recall, Gaby was the only one to receive paperwork and you know how she can get when you touch her-”  
  
Napoleon had stood up to finally see what had so engrossed Illya’s attention into the young hours of the morning. His sentence drifted away when he did not see the paperwork that he assumed was on the table. Instead, he saw Illya’s watch, completely disassembled.  
  
The strap and back plate had been fondly placed just outside of the main beam of light, furthest from Illya. Both glistened as if freshly polished. Further in shadow was a rather sad pile of scrap metal including a terribly warped bezel, the last few fragments of the broken glass, and the bent dial with one of the broken hands imbedded in the fine metal. A few distorted screws and gears decorated the pile but what really caught Napoleon’s attention was the sparkling mass of copper and silver that glimmered directly under the lamplight and a standing magnifying glass.  
  
Everything had been laid out with a clear order, the separate gears occupying their own set space on the oak table. All the parts were pristine and Napoleon wondered if Illya dismantled his father’s watch to clean and care for as often as he did his own gun. The main circular chunk of complex clockwork was currently being heavily inspected by Illya from under the magnifying glass. The Russian’s large hands delicately held small instruments – pliers, tweezers, screwdrivers were used and exchanged without Illya even having to glance at the tools lined up in front of him like the utensils to a meal.  
  
Napoleon watched with mute fascination as Illya deftly shifted through the infinite gears within the clockwork: moving, removing, replacing, fixing. Damaged gears were plucked out of the mass of interlocked metal and tossed into the discard pile. Fresh, new gears were chosen from the spread of parts and, like the great Georges-Pierre Seurat meticulously adding each individual dot to his grand masterpiece _A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte_ , were added.  
  
The tools, almost swallowed up by Illya’s hands, were an extension of the man himself, decisively dipping in and out of the mechanism with ease and a tender familiarity. Illya has done this before.  
  
“You sure you are well, Cowboy?”  
  
Illya was again looking at him, hands posed over the clockwork, a dented gear hanging daintily from a pair of tweezers pinched softly between Illya’s fingers. The light was changing his eyes again, making the blue pools gleam; there was almost a silver tinge to them as well. The scar beside his eye looked darker than ever.  
  
“Of course,” Napoleon said, catching himself.  
  
“You are staring.”  
  
Yes he was. And he couldn’t help it. He moved away from the couch and towards Illya on silent feet. Illya did not blink, nor did his hands so much as twitch as Napoleon pulled a chair out from the table and took a seat at Illya’s elbow. The light was still slightly turned away from him and, so close, the gears sparkled like freshly minted coins. Their shine, however, was no match for the light captured by Illya’s eyes.  
  
“I seem to, inexplicably, enjoy watching you work.” He dismissed Illya’s scrutiny with a charming smile, the one he put on when about to seduce some innocent. Of course, Illya was no innocent.  
  
Illya gave an unamused snort that did no favors for Napoleon’s ego and returned his attention to the repairing of his watch.  
  
“Do you mind?” Napoleon asked, suddenly conscious that Illya actually might.  
  
“Do not touch,” was the only affirmation Napoleon received from the focused man, but it was all he needed.  
  
Napoleon relaxed in his seat, hands clasped loosely in his lap, perfectly content to simply watch the way Illya’s hands so lovingly manipulated the minuscule gears within the maze of the clockwork. Hard to imagine those same hands once yanked the back off of a car.  
  
The minutes wore on, collecting like the broken gears, glass, and splinters of wood in Illya’s discard pile. Both pairs of eyes stayed on Illya’s steady hands. Napoleon was not quite staring. It was more like pleasurably watching, like one watching an artist at the easel or watching the slow arch of the moon across the sky. It was almost hypnotic and Napoleon’s shoulders loosened from a weight he had not known he was carrying since the beginning of the mission.  
  
Illya seemed to struggle for a moment, fingers tightening ever so slightly around the clockwork while the tweezers rooted within the gears. With a soft scrape of metal on metal, he pulled out a single gear. One of its pointed edges was missing, likely foreshadowing a future hunt for its missing part in the tangle of metal.  
  
Illya leaned back in his seat and contemplated the broken gear, rotating it in front of his face. It surprised Napoleon when he spoke.  
  
“I replaced this one back in Moscow,” Illya said, still looking at the gear. His voice was strangely comfortable and warm. “I had to jump off a moving train. Hit my watch on rock.” He added this gear to the other broken ones and some whim of nostalgia bade him pick up another piece rather than return to the clockwork.  
  
“Put this one in,” he continued, a semblance of a smile ghosting across his lips, “after getting hit in training. It was clubs that day, I think.” He put the gear back.  
  
He picked up the dial next. “The one before this was darker. I try to match the colors. Did not miss that one so much after it melted in fire.”  
  
The bezel was examined next and this he brought back to the space between him and Napoleon. “I lost this one’s predecessor in a fight. My spar-partner cheated. I had beaten him before. He used a knife. Caught it with my watch.” Illya shrugged with amusement. “I lost bezel, he lost knife.”  
  
Napoleon was not looking at the bezel. Napoleon was gaping – yes this time he was actually staring – at Illya. Two expressions warred over his face.  
  
The first was an odd happiness with only a hint of confusion between his brows. Illya had just opened up, had initiated a conversation – with him, Napoleon, the thief he thought more annoying than the bagpipes they heard on an Ireland mission – about his past. Illya hardly spoke when not spoken to, least of all about his past. Sure the Red Peril probably had a few heart-to-hearts with Gaby, but this was Napoleon. This was a momentous occasion and Napoleon was absolutely thrilled that Illya had decided to open up to him.  
  
The second was a less pleasing emotion. It was one of sheer horror. One that spelled out plainly on Napoleon’s face thoughts such as: _Oh dear lord, what did the KBG do to him? how did he survive this long on his own? why the hell did he jump off a moving train? that sparring partner should have lost more than a knife_.  
  
“Solo.”  
  
Napoleon blinked. Illya was staring back at him and the expression on his face suggested that it was not the first time Illya had called him.  
  
“You should sleep,” Illya said, frowning at Napoleon, a flash of concern sparking through those illuminated eyes. “You are clearly unwell.”  
  
Before Napoleon could stop him, Illya reached out a hand and his fingers touched the back of Napoleon’s head, instantly finding the bump that persisted there. “You still need to recover.” The touch was unexpected but gentle and Napoleon tiredly leaned back into it.  
  
Apparently, Illya took this moment of vulnerability as something worse. Napoleon knew it the moment Illya’s fingers went still in his hair and then he was looking at the bruise along Napoleon’s neck.  
  
He stood abruptly from the table, making his chair squeak in protest and the contents on the table jingle. “I will get ice,” he announced, the words laced with something akin to worry.  
  
“It’s fine, Illya, it’s fine” Napoleon assured him, catching the man by the wrist. “Please, I want you to finish this.” He gestured to the watch with his free hand. “I know it’s important to you.”  
  
That was the truth. But there was some selfishness behind it as well. Napoleon wanted to stay here, in the shadows cast by the lamplight brighter than the moon he had followed in the night sky. And he wanted Illya to stay here, illuminated in that piercing light. He felt more at ease here than he had in his own repose in bed.  
  
Illya fidgeted a moment in a restless manner, completely foil to how he had been only seconds before. His eyes shot to the kitchen, wanting to get his self-diagnosed remedy in an attempt to heal some of the pain he had inflicted. But Napoleon’s hold was firm and his gaze resolute. Illya slowly returned to his seat.  
  
“You will sleep when I am done,” Illya said. It was an order.  
  
“Yes, yes,” Napoleon said, eyes tired and limbs heavy. He propped his head up on one hand. “But I do enjoy watching you work.”  
  
Illya only stopped in his work once in the night to cover his partner with a blanket from the couch once Napoleon had fallen asleep at the table. In the morning, a hand with a ticking watch strapped to the wrist plopped down a glass of water and a bag of ice in front of Napoleon’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to show that Illya's gentleness extends beyond his partners and that his hands (so often curled into fists) can be gentle enough to perform even the most precise and delicate kind of work.
> 
> Also FYI, it might be another day or two before the next chapter pops up. I agonize over these things a few days, reading and reading until every word I want is in the proper place and (almost) every typo is eliminated. I thank you for reading and for being patient with me.
> 
> Excelsior


	5. Crashes and Gauze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And back to the whump.

They were in Ireland, tracking a small but powerful group of Irish nationalists. Although the civil war had been over for more than 40 years, a thriving faction of the (previously thought to be extinct) Irish Republican Party persisted.  
  
Napoleon wasn’t sure why this particular group of blood-thirsty individuals insisted on continuing to cause havoc in their homeland, years after the conflict had been resolved, or even how they had manage to for so long. Waverly had hypothesized that perhaps this small group was surviving solely on THRUSH assistance, another secret organization much like UNCLE bent on world dominance, or whatever evil masterminds were up to these days. Waverly didn’t often indulge in details about UNCLE’s foil unless the immediate mission demanded it.  
  
Regardless, the nationalists were hunting down the families of those that had fought against them during the war and were being fully supported by THRUSH finance and weaponry. UNCLE’s even smaller and more powerful team (in Gaby’s opinion, but then she was living proof that small was ferocious) had been called in to stop them. Finding this underground group had taken some time. They were good at covering their tracks; at shooting a gun unseen and fleeing into the green hills and bustling cities.  
  
Napoleon’s undercover disguise had been relatively easy: an American who disliked British rule and interference as much as the Irish. He had made easy camaraderie with the few members of the group they had managed to locate. Gaby played his lover and weapons connoisseur, sticking close to Napoleon’s side and talking shop with the Irish. Illya had been instructed to tail his team from the shadows; watching and listening closely but not participating. Illya had, of course, expressed his dissent at being benched (there were a few choice words for Waverly that would have made a weaker man curl up in a locked closet and Napoleon had been present when some irreparable damage had been done to a lovely mahogany table). But, Waverly had explained once the dust settled, it was unknown how the Irish would react to seeing a Russian on their soil. They were volatile enough as it was. Napoleon blamed finding two bugs in his shoes and one in his tie clip on Illya’s indignation.  
  
The plan was simple enough: Napoleon and Gaby infiltrate the small army and try to win their favor as weapon smugglers. They had to play an independent party that could provide the Irish with more than what THRUSH offered. As this was meaningless empty promises, Napoleon excelled and was quickly welcomed in. Then, they had to find their mark: the leader of this absurd army long past its prime. Once the leader was killed or taken in to UNCLE, it would be a job well done. Illya was allowed to intervene only if absolutely necessary but the Irish had been so taken by Napoleon’s charm and Gaby’s knowledge, they practically laid out the red carpet straight to their boss, a man known only as Godot.  
  
Apprehending the man had not been easy. Napoleon had opted for a more evasive escape in which they smuggled or tricked the leader out and into the waiting fists of their Russian friend but somehow (and it frustrated Napoleon to no end how they did it) Godot had been warned by THRUSH of Napoleon and Gaby’s true intentions. The crime boss had initiated a battle right in the middle of their rather drab hideout in an abandoned storeroom for potatoes (Napoleon would have laughed at the stereotype had he not been ducking to avoid the bullets whizzing over his head). Gaby’s knowledge of guns extended far past the purely intellectual and there were plenty of guns in the vicinity for her to take advantage of, but even she struggled in the ensuing gunfight.  
  
Fortunately, by the time Illya had beaten down the doors, fists up and eyes ablaze, Napoleon had Godot at gunpoint and those who had been unable to flee, were currently looking down the barrel of Gaby’s gun with some mixture of fear and arousal.  
  
Waverly had arrived promptly by helicopter while Illya found some solace at missing the action by pointing out another tracking device in Napoleon’s cufflinks and in Gaby’s earrings (god damn it how did the larger man do it and how were his devices getting smaller and smaller?). Then Waverly had whisked the bad man away.  
  
Now Napoleon was driving through Dublin to the nearest airport in a too-small rental car (American engineering really needed to be introduced here) with Gaby in the passenger seat.  
  
“You should have seen her, Peril,” Napoleon said, a little more loudly than one in a car talking to his passenger would normally speak. “Our chop shop girl cuts a striking image when she’s firing two guns at once. You’d have been proud.”  
  
Once the mission was completed, the team had removed their receivers that allowed them to talk to one another. However, Napoleon was sure that Illya, following a few cars behind, could likely hear them via some transmitter that he had planted in Napoleon’s rental. A transmitter he had not actually found was sure to exist. It was almost like Illya was in the car with them, oppressively silent as usual.  
  
“Shame Waverly confiscated them,” Gaby sighed. “Would have liked to keep at least one. I don’t know who THRUSH is but they have good taste.”  
  
Napoleon wondered if they should be more worried about the fact that THRUSH did have good weapons, better weapons if he dared admit it.  
  
“I’m sure he’ll let you borrow one if you ask,” Napoleon replied. He had one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting near the open window. The breeze, chilled from a fast shower not ten minutes before and heavy with the smell of fresh bread, felt good on his face and tousled his hair.  
  
Gaby beside him was leaning back against her chair, arms loosely crossed over her chest; ridiculously large sunglasses covering most of her face. Her head was tilted away from Napoleon to gaze out at the bustling Dublin afternoon, her glasses reflecting the tall buildings and quaint shops.  
  
“Probably best we don’t have that kind of firepower anyway,” Gaby amended with a one-shoulder shrug. “Don’t need to be as bad as the people who have them. Or the people they sell them to.”  
  
“Yes, we do have first-hand experience with how people like that end up,” Napoleon agreed. He shot a grin at Gaby.  
  
“They get caught by us.” She flashed her own grin, all teeth. A smile of victory, pride.  
  
“And I’d hate to find myself on the other side of Peril’s fists. Again.”  
  
Napoleon glanced back in the rearview mirror as if to meet Illya’s eyes scowling back at him from the backseat. Instead, he targeted another car as small as theirs several yards behind them. He could almost feel the heat of the stare Illya was giving him from that small car. Though that heat would be greatly dampened by the sight of the large man stuffed into a small car, shoulders almost touching the ceiling as Illya bent his head forward, knees almost to his elbows.  
  
Napoleon’s teasing grin widened into a sincere smile and he chuckled at the thought.  
  
He stopped the car at a red light and watched a few people amble across the street, hands holding children, arms laden with fresh produce. He tapped a beat against the steering wheel as he waited.  
  
“I might miss this place,” Gaby mused, almost to herself. Her face was again turned towards the city. A thick patch of clouds drifted lazily across the sky, predicting another fast shower.  
  
“The fashion? The food?” Napoleon guessed, looking to her.  
  
“The space. The sky.”  
  
Napoleon’s gaze softened and he looked away again, this time up at the sky. He could imagine what the stars looked like here. Go an hour or two drive in any direction and you’d be out of the city and coasting down rolling hills, flat plateaus, and past desuetude castles. It was quiet in the distance and lively where pockets of homes and shops bundled. A good place to start over, build yourself anew from the ground up.  
  
Napoleon always pictured himself settling down (whenever that was going to happen, what with Sanders constantly tugging at the damned leash round his neck) in a large city, maybe go back to New York: lots of buildings, large population, plenty of places to hide. To disappear. No stars to give away his position in the dark, no faces worth remembering; no faces to remember him.  
  
That was the plan. Of course, that was also before meeting Gaby and Illya. Now he wasn’t so sure. Thinking about the implications of this fact made Napoleon fidget.  
  
“What about you, Peril?” Napoleon asked, voice oddly out of place in the comfortable quiet that had settled in the car. “Start somewhere new?” The light changed and Napoleon accelerated. “Or back to Mos-”  
  
Napoleon wished that it was his own hesitation of voicing aloud a mild fear he had been harboring that one day the team would disassemble and Illya would retreat back behind the Soviet’s cold walls.  
  
As it was, he was interrupted by a car slamming into his side of the car.  
  
Gaby let out a scream as the cacophonous sounds of crunching metal and squealing tires assaulted the air and Napoleon’s ringing ears. Glass exploded onto Napoleon, scratching as his face and pooling in his lap. His hands had released the useless steering wheel to cover his face. He leaned away from the point of impact, the car door a twisted mess under the nose of the car that had t-boned them. The metal of that door was pressing uncomfortably close into his side and his hip and legs flared with pain. His own scream tore unbidden from his throat to join Gaby’s.  
  
Within the next second, before their car could even bounce away from the car that hit them, another car surged towards them from Gaby’s side. Napoleon saw it too late and he tried to reach for her but then the car was rocked with a another collision as the second car careened into them, crunching the passenger side inwards. More glass burst through the stifling air and the window-shield shattered. Gaby stopped screaming.  
  
The whiplash threw Napoleon’s body back against his destroyed car door, head cracking against the frame. White flared across his vision. He was gasping, breathing in air sour with gasoline, smoke, and the metallic tinge of blood. He couldn’t see though he knew his eyes were open and blinking. Everything swayed and seemed to be simultaneously too far and too close. It hurt to breathe and he knew the cause was more than the foul air. His chest was tight and aching. His mouth worked but no sounds came out, throat sore from his scream. He couldn’t hear above the shrill alarms going off in his head and his own erratic heartbeat telling him he needed to _move_.  
  
Gaby. Was Gaby okay? He had to find her.  
  
Napoleon groaned audibly and tried to lift his head from where it was collapsed against the steering wheel. Some of his hearing was coming back, his body trying to warn him of oncoming danger by lowering the volume of his pounding heart. He could hear voices, thick with a Gaelic accent. He could hear the thundering crunch of boots over glass.  
  
Napoleon turned his head. Gaby. She was sitting slumped in her chair next to him, her seatbelt supporting her weight. She was bleeding. She was not moving. Napoleon tried to reach for her, to search for a pulse against her throat sticky with warm blood. But his arms couldn’t move. Nothing would move and he grit his teeth at his own helplessness.  
  
He saw a black-clad figure drift into his vision from outside Gaby’s window, stalking closer, a large gun held in his hands.  
  
He struggled. He had to move. That man. He was coming. He was going to kill Gaby. He was going to kill them. _He had to move!_  
  
A hand grabbed his hair and his head was cruelly snapped back. A cry of pain was the only sound he seemed capable of making and he blinked hazy eyes up at the man that was reaching through his window, similarly dressed all in black with another large gun. This one was pointed at Napoleon’s face.  
  
“For the Republic,” the man seethed.  
  
Napoleon stared into the dark barrel of the gun, wounding if death would hurt any more than he was hurting right now. Maybe it would be a mercy. But then he would be leaving Gaby behind. He would be leaving Illya behind. The pain of that thought hurt more than any bullet possibly could.  
  
He never felt the bite of the bullet, however, because there was the sound of an echoing gunshot and the gunman at Napoleon’s window dropped to the ground without so much as a gurgle, blood spewing out from his temple.  
  
There was another shot and Napoleon gingerly turned his head to see that the man outside Gaby’s window was no longer there.  
  
Glass crunched under running feet and suddenly Illya was blocking the window and his face filled Napoleon’s vision. Illya face was flushed, mouth open in silent panting and subtle panic. His blue eyes were wide and hyper-alert, flickering over Napoleon and Gaby as he assessed the damage. It was inexplicably one of the most beautiful things Napoleon had ever seen.  
  
His mouth moved but Napoleon couldn’t hear what he said. He squinted at Illya’s lips, trying to decipher what they were saying and suddenly finding that his desire to hear Illya’s voice was nearly crippling.  
  
Illya snapped his teeth and probably growled (Napoleon would expect nothing less, to be honest) at Napoleon’s unresponsiveness. He straightened and Napoleon lost sight of his face as Illya looked around at the people on the sidewalk running away from the gunshots and at idling cars that had been abandoned around the crash. No other threats appeared. When Illya came back into view, Napoleon released a breath didn’t know he’d been holding.  
  
“Napoleon!” Illya shouted and this time Napoleon heard him.  
  
He blinked up vacantly at his partner. “Illya.” His voice was too thin, too coarse, but he said it. This seemed to bring some relief to Illya whose blue eyes lost some of their anxious edge.  
  
“I am going to get you out,” Illya said, spitting the words out as if it were a physical effort to get them out as evenly as he did.  
  
“Gaby,” Napoleon wheezed, closing his eyes against the painful strain of speaking.  
  
“Do not close your eyes,” Illya snapped and his hand patted at Napoleon’s cheek until the slighter man opened his eyes again. “You stay awake.”  
  
Why did Illya have to ask the impossible.  
  
Keeping his hand on Napoleon’s cheek, and Napoleon did not miss the way the fingers slid down to rest just under his jaw and check his pulse sputtering there, Illya looked past him to Gaby. She was slowly coming to with soft whimpers and diminutive movements.  
  
“Go,” Napoleon slurred, part command and part agreement.  
  
Illya nodded. His hand slipped away from Napoleon and he suddenly missed its warmth. It was becoming rather cold in the car. Perhaps another shower was coming sooner than he had expected. Illya vaulted over the front of the car that had crashed into them, deftly avoiding the jagged point the hood had made when it crumpled up.  
  
Napoleon’s head lolled to follow Illya to the passenger side. Gaby’s door, and Napoleon’s too no doubt, was fitfully smashed and had no hope of being pried open. It didn’t help that a truck, still tiny by American standards but large enough to deal massive damage when hitting another car dead-on, was currently parked in the passenger side door.  
  
Illya used his bare hands to clear the glass from around the window and pushed at the crushed frame around the window. He somehow managed to, by some sheer feat of strength and will, widen the window gap by pulling the frame apart, much like a cartoon character pulling at the thick bars of a prison cell to escape through them.  
  
When the window was as wide as he was going to get it in the limited time he had, Illya squeezed his shoulders into the space and reached for Gaby’s seatbelt. He didn’t so much remove it as he did tear it at the seams.  
  
Gaby gave an agonized moan that sent chills up Napoleon’s spine. Illya’s hands were trembling.  
  
With the seatbelt gone, Illya backed out of the window and then powerful arms snaked in and around Gaby’s torso. He gingerly lifted her up and out of the car, dragging her body through the window. When half of her was free, he slipped one arm under her legs and cleared her of the rest of it.  
  
Illya looked down at the woman blinking sluggishly in his arms and then his stare lurched to Napoleon.  
  
“Still here,” Napoleon muttered, wincing slightly. He tried to smile but the frown that deepened on Illya’s face and the fear that ran rampant in his eyes proved Napoleon hadn’t quite been able to pull the movement off.  
  
“Stay here,” Illya commanded in a way that Napoleon understood to mean more than just staying put in the car.  
  
Napoleon suddenly found it hard to speak over the lump lodged in his throat. But he nodded, wincing at the movement. Illya hesitated, jaw working, but he said nothing more. He turned away and bolted from the car. Napoleon leaned his head back in his seat, lifting his eyes to the lopsided rearview mirror.  
  
Illya’s car was waiting behind Napoleon’s, still a few cars back. Illya had probably jumped out the moment Napoleon’s car was crashed into. The driver’s side door was still hanging open. With his own ragged gasping the only sound in the car, Napoleon watched Illya nearly ripped the backseat door of its hinges and then he bent inside with Gaby.  
  
Napoleon’s vision lurched and his stomach heaved. He leaned over the middle car compartment as far as he could and emptied the contents of his stomach. When his breakfast had been dispelled, and had fitfully decorated the passenger’s side flooring, Napoleon leaned back again and managed to lift one shaking hand to wipe at his mouth. It came away flecked with blood.  
  
Napoleon groaned and his head sagged until his chin nearly touched his chest. His throat burned and his mouth was sour. The smell from the passenger side was creeping up towards him, the sickly tendrils making his stomach roll again.  
  
All of a sudden, everything was too close and he was acutely aware of just how trapped he was. The warped door was hard against his side, the steering wheel was pressing down on his legs, his seatbelt was too tight across his already aching chest, and the car enclosed around him was too fucking small.  
  
Illya was back at the passenger side door just as the panic wrapped an icy fist around Napoleon’s heart. Napoleon snapped his head to look at his partner (and instantly regretted it). There was blood smeared on Illya’s shirt but the Russian was looking only at Napoleon. He gave no notice to the bile soaking into the carpet of the car.  
  
“Get me outta here,” Napoleon rasped.  
  
Illya gave one resolute nod and then he clambered onto the hood of the decimated car. He again used his hands to clear the glass from the front window, though most of the window shield was still currently sitting in Napoleon’s lap. Then Illya reached in and grasped the steering wheel with both hands.  
  
Napoleon recognized the gesture, especially when Illya’s biceps bulged and strained. The steering wheel creaked and groaned as Illya pulled. Napoleon could only watch in mute fascination. The wheel jerked and then it was ripped clear away from the dash. Illya tossed the wheel carelessly over his shoulder, frayed wires flapping in the wind. The seatbelt was ripped away with similar vigor. Then Illya was reaching for him and Napoleon gratefully leaned forward into firm but gentle hands.  
  
With a grunt, Illya lifted Napoleon up to his chest. Only one of Napoleon’s arms flailed weakly and managed to sling around Illya’s neck, his fingers fumbling for a hold. He gasped against Illya’s neck, appreciative of the smell of the Russian’s aftershave that chased away the smell of vomit.  
  
Illya locked his arm tight across Napoleon’s back and then he slowly started to pull the rest of Napoleon’s body out of the car as he eased back away from the window. Napoleon bit his tongue until he tasted blood. Though his legs were unresponsive, the pain was very much alive and mobile, coursing along his spine with every movement. It filled his head until all his could see was white and all he could hear was what he assumed white sounded like. He made sure to keep his eyes and mouth firmly shut.  
  
Illya moved painstakingly slow as he managed to free enough of Napoleon’s legs to get a secure hold. With Napoleon still clinging weakly to his neck, Illya reached down to scoop up his legs as carefully as he could, fully aware of every flinch and stifled cry Napoleon was doing his best to hide. Nothing seemed to escape Illya. Maybe that was for the best. Napoleon was getting tired of hiding. He was too tired to do anything.  
  
Just as Illya was taking those long strides (he was not running but no normal person walked this fast) back to his car, Napoleon let the fatigue win. He went limp, suddenly aware of just how heavy his limps felt. His arm slipped away from Illya’s neck.  
  
“Solo!”  
  
Illya’s reaction was instantaneous. No sooner had Napoleon’s fingers relinquished their feeble hold on Illya’s shoulder did Illya start yelling at him.  
  
“You open your eyes right now,” the larger man bellowed, his chest rumbling against Napoleon’s cheek. His voice slipped into rough Russian. “I will tell Gaby you faint.” There was anger in his voice and in the way his hold tightened around Napoleon. “I will tell Waverly. Tell him you are unfit to be spy.” Illya was goading him, aiming for a reaction. “I will tell the KGB about the weakness of Americans.” Well, let him goad. Napoleon was too tired to care. He just wanted to sl-  
  
“Napoleon.”  
  
Napoleon gave a start. The heavy fog of sleep started to clear from his mind. Had he ever heard Illya so raw before?  
  
Illya was still speaking in Russian, but the accent had softened, more like a lullaby than speech. “You do not give up. You are strong.” He felt himself lowered into a seat, likely the passenger seat of Illya’s car. “You stay here. You cannot go. I will not allow it.” Fingers touched his pulse and the rapidness of it seemed to want to press Napoleon’s skin to that touch as closely and as quickly as possible. “Gaby will be upset if you die. I will not forgive you if you do.” Hands took his face, fingertips light as the Dublin breeze checking for damage; wiping blood away.  
  
“Napoleon, open your eyes.”  
  
Napoleon did.  
  
The blue he saw in the eyes staring back at him could not possibly be a real color, could not possibly be recreated with pastels or paint. It was the blue of glacier waters sparkling under a bright sun. Somehow they managed to brighten further when Napoleon met them.  
  
“Peril,” he greeted cordially.  
  
“Cowboy,” Illya responded in kind.  
  
Then Illya was gone, slamming the door and reappearing in the driver’s seat before Napoleon could even blink. The engine was already running; had probably been the whole time. Illya shifted it into gear and bumped his way through the cars that had been left alone and were blocking his way. He guided the car to the sidewalk and accelerated, quickly sending the few brave people who had come out to look, diving back into the buildings they had sought refuge in.  
  
“Where we going?” Napoleon asked, tongue thick in his mouth.  
  
“Hospitable.”  
  
“Waverly-”  
  
“Will meet us there.”  
  
“Gaby?”  
  
“In the back. She will be okay.”  
  
Though it hurt to move, Napoleon turned his head enough to see Gaby lying out on the backseat, all the seatbelts fastened around her to ensure she would not tumble off. Napoleon wasn’t sure what Illya’s idea of “okay” was in this situation but he had to trust his judgment.  
  
Gaby was unconscious, arms limp at her side. Her clothes were rumbled and torn, some glass still glittering amid the fabric. Her hair was a tangled mess and her glasses were gone. Every bit of exposed flesh had been cut by glass; thin lines of puckered flesh marring her arms, legs, and face. Blood littered her skin and clothes but there wasn’t much and what little there was was already drying. There was probably more internal damage and broken bones but the small woman from Germany had been incredibly lucky. Yes, she would be okay.  
  
Napoleon turned his head to catch sight of his reflection in the passenger side mirror. He, it appeared, was marginally less lucky.  
  
Glass had nicked his face and hands too and the angry red lines ran in all directions across his skin. Like Gaby’s, the cuts were shallow and of little concern. His suit was ruined and his hair disheveled, matted with blood. What did concern him most was a long gash at his temple where his head had hit the door of the car. The gash disappeared into his hairline. The blood oozing from the wound was dark and sticky. It trailed down his cheek and to his neck in a thick, slow river.  
  
“Here,” Illya said, giving the steering wheel a jerk to get them back on the street and racing through traffic. His free hand handed Napoleon his flat hat, an accessory only the Russian man seemed capable of pulling off.  
  
“But it doesn’t match,” Napoleon half-smiled. Illya scowled. Napoleon accepted the hat with his good hand (yep, the other one was definitely broken, perhaps his legs too seeing as he couldn’t quite feel them yet aside from the waves of pain) and pressed it up against his head, hissing at the pain that flared there.  
  
He hadn’t realized he had closed his eyes again until he felt Illya’s hand cover his over the wound.  
  
“Keep pressure and stay awake,” was all Illya said, his eyes focused on the road ahead, calculating which route to take and gauging the gaps between cars.  
  
“Why do I have to stay awake?” Napoleon whined as Illya drew his hand away. “Gaby gets to sleep." He would have jabbed a thumb back at their third partner but his other hand was not working.  
  
“Gaby does not have concussion.”  
  
Napoleon turned to face Illya. “I believe I can safely assess whether or not I have a concussion,” he said with a snide sniff.  
  
“Am over here, Cowboy.”  
  
Napoleon blinked at the steering wheel he had been addressing and lifted his gaze to Illya sitting as stoic as ever, expression the epitome of seriousness.  
  
“Ah. Peril, I do believe I have a concussion,” he admitted, perhaps a tad too carelessly. “What if I sleep it off? Like a hangover.” He knew how to do that.  
  
“I am sure you know as well as I not to sleep with concussion.”  
  
“But I’m tired.”  
  
“Then talk. You are good at that.”  
  
Napoleon huffed. He would have crossed his arms haughtily over his chest to complete his look of a petulant child but couldn’t, not when one hand was trying to stop the bleeding at his head, and the other was broken. But he couldn’t deny the logic of Illya’s suggestion. Talking would ward off the comfort of sleep. For a while.  
  
“Do we know who turned us into a crash course?”  
  
A muscle in Illya’s jaw jumped and Napoleon decided he shouldn’t discuss the crash so nonchalantly just yet.  
  
“The people we came here to stop,” Illya answered impassively.  
  
“Do we know why?”  
  
“We took their leader. They revolted.”  
  
“Makes sense.”  
  
Now what? Normally such a smooth talker with an endless supply of topics to talk about, Napoleon suddenly felt at a loss of what to say next. He blamed it on the head wound and not on the contour of Illya’s jaw or the way his large (albeit bleeding) hands gripped the steering wheel so hard the knuckles were white.  
  
“How do you Americans say – ‘cat took your tongue?’” Illya interrupted.  
  
Napoleon shook his head. Blood loss was a cumbersome interference. “It’s ‘cat got your tongue’. And no, I was just thinking.”  
  
“Dangerous for you, yes?”  
  
“Do you really think so little of me?” He meant to say it as a joke but a flash of pain when Illya made a sharp turn turned the light sarcasm into a grimace.  
  
It was silent and Napoleon realized his mistake. He turned to Illya, ready to amend it with an explanation or joke, or _something_ to get that look off Illya’s face.  
  
Before he could, Illya replied in a quiet voice, “I do not.”  
  
Oh. Well that was unexpected.  
  
“Do enlighten me,” Napoleon said without heat.  
  
Illya seemed to struggle, his jaw working again, a motion Napoleon interpreted as when Illya wanted to speak but didn’t know what words to say.  
  
“You are good thief,” he said at last.  
  
“But terrible spy,” Napoleon added without missing a beat and with a horribly exaggerated Russian accent.  
  
Some of the ice melted from Illya’s shoulders and face and he almost smiled. “Yes.”  
  
“Anything else?” Napoleon felt guilty at prying; using his injury to provoke Illya into saying more, but Illya’s voice was an anchor to hang onto when sleep threatened to whisk him away. That and he did want to know.  
  
With some of the tension relieved, the words came easier to Illya. “I am impressed with your use of words. It is an asset Gaby and I do not have. Though I do not agree with all that you say.” He gave a pointed look at Napoleon who shrugged.  
  
“I will admit you are better at picking locks.”  
  
“Don’t hurt yourself, Peril.”  
  
“But your American technology is lacking.  
  
“That’s better.”  
  
There was a kindness in Illya’s eyes now. “You are very good partner. Best I have had.” Napoleon was staring again. “You get job done and you leave no one behind.” Illya met his gaze. “I can trust you. I can trust you to come back for Gaby and me if we are caught.” Napoleon’s heart was pounding again. “You are good with gun. I trust you to have my back.”  
  
Napoleon was still staring when Illya parked the car in front of a hospital. With the engine still puttering away, Illya jumped out of the car and to the backseat. He carefully eased Gaby out and she began to stir. She whimpered and Illya shushed her with gentle words Napoleon didn’t catch.  
  
Illya came up to the passenger side window and Napoleon made the effort to turn his head to meet his gaze.  
  
“Stay here,” Illya repeated and then he was gone, trotting through the hospital doors.  
  
Napoleon was left alone with his swirling thoughts and stinging headache. The hat in his hand was soaked through but he barely noticed. He was thinking about what Illya had said.  
  
Of course they trusted each other. Back when they had decided to spare the other and burn the disc of nuclear plans instead, they had both wordlessly agreed that some trust did exist between them. During their missions, there had been trust, there needed to be. It was the only way to function as a team. They had to trust the other to do their job and accomplish the mission. They had to trust the other to watch their back. One of them would be dead by now if that trust hadn’t existed.  
  
And of course Napoleon trusted Illya. The large man was a powerful ally, his asset being his strength and sheer size. His experience with weapons and various motorized vehicles was a plus. But when worse came to worst, Illya had always proven himself to fight his way into and out of the fray to keep Napoleon and Gaby safe at his side.  
  
The trust had always been there. But to hear it spoken aloud, to hear that Illya’s thoughts matched Napoleon’s own, well that brought on a certain responsibility. It was a promise not to break that trust, to depend on it even when it seemed to weaken.  
  
Napoleon suddenly wanted Illya back. He wanted to tell him that Illya was a great spy though terribly awkward and surprisingly gentle, more loyal hound than feral bear. He wanted to tell Illya that Napoleon trusted him too; that no matter what unfavorable situation Napoleon found himself in, he could trust Illya to get him out.  
  
He needed to tell him. Because the car was too cold and too cramped and because darkness seeped into his vision and he could tell that it was not sleep but something much more final that beckoned to him from the recesses of his mind. His breathing was ragged and his chest was too tight; his heart fluttered and fresh blood seeped down his face.  
  
He was scared.  
  
He was afraid he was going to die right here, alone in this rental in front of a hospital he did not have the ability to walk into. He was afraid he wasn’t going to see Illya or Gaby again, that his last memory of them will be Gaby’s scratched face and of the anxiety in Illya’s eyes when he had told Napoleon to stay. He was scared.  
  
“Napoleon,” Illya said when he opened the door.  
  
Napoleon dropped the blood-stained hat and reached for him. “Illya,” he gasped.  
  
Illya quickly ducked inside and clicked the seatbelt off. Napoleon slung his arm over Illya’s shoulders and he grabbed a fistful of cloth. He buried his face in Illya’s shoulder, embarrassed of the tears that had collected at the edges of his eyes. It was childish and pathetic but Napoleon clung to Illya with the rest of his strength.  
  
When Illya trotted back into the hospital, a waiting gurney was being wheeled towards them. Doctors and nurses shouted to each other as Illya gently placed Napoleon down on the gurney. There was blood on Illya’s neck and hands. A nurse straightened Napoleon’s legs out and he couldn’t stop the cry or the tears that sprang forth. Tubes and IVs were stuck into his arms, and a mask slipped down over his mouth and nose as he was wheeled away. Illya kept pace beside him with a hand on his shoulder. Napoleon gripped the hem of his black shirt.  
  
“You are going to be okay,” Illya was repeating, sometimes in English, sometimes in Russian.  
  
He wiped at a tear before a nurse stopped him and held him back. Napoleon lost his grip on Illya’s shirt and another nurse replaced his arm on the gurney. He was wheeled into a sterile, too-white room and then consciousness slipped as easily through his fingers as Illya’s shirt.  
  
OoOoOoOoOoO  
  
When Napoleon woke, he instantly regretted it.  
  
Pain coursed through his body with every beat of his heart though it was somewhat subdued. He was drugged then.  
  
His arm was strapped to his chest in a sling and his other covered in thin white gauze. He could feel his legs some more, like they had simply been numb with sleep and were now prickling back awake. He felt the thickness of bandages and the metal of a splint on each leg. His face was sticky with strips of gauze and ointment. A bandage was wrapped tight around his head, applying pressure to his cleaned head-wound. IV drips hung from both arms and his wrists and a heart monitor beeped with a comforting steadiness.  
  
The room he was in was as drab as any other hospital room: white walls, white ceiling, white tiled floor; white bed sheets. The only spot of color in this white world came from the man that sat beside Napoleon’s bedside: blond messed hair, black shirt. Directly on the other side of him was another bed. The patient there had beautiful tanned skin and rich dark hair. When she saw Napoleon blinking at her, she smiled.  
  
“Gaby,” Napoleon murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.  
  
“Glad you could join us, Napoleon” Gaby said, as bandaged as he but positively glowing with happiness.  
  
“Illya,” Napoleon said, turning his attention to the man nestled between the two beds. He must have physically moved them closer so that he was an arm’s length away from both his partners.  
  
“Welcome back,” Illya said, lips lifted in an actual smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time I wanted to focus on the gentleness of Illya's words more than his touches.
> 
> For those of you who may not know your Irish literature, I named the leader Godot after Samuel Beckett's play "Waiting for Godot."
> 
> Really considering breaking this chapter fic up and turning it into a series. I end up writing a whole story around this one scene I want to express and then I really lose control of the story sometimes. Suddenly I'm writing these 5,000 word things because I keep thinking, "there's just more story to write." 
> 
> Thank you so much for being patient with me. Life, man. And thank you to my readers, returning and new. Your comments and kudos bring me much joy.


	6. Brawls and Bruises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING** : This chapter contains some content that may be considered inappropriate (such as racial slurs and strong language) and violent (such as blood). I do not condone what the characters do, I am just writing and staying true to their character. 
> 
> Another warning: Yeah, this one is particularly long. It's a curse.

It felt good to be back in America, in an American bar with an American scotch cool in his hand and warm in his belly. Tucked away in his pocket, he already had the phone numbers of the waitress and a lovely brunette in a dark blue dress that left little to the imagination. He had the undivided attention of all five men lounging around his table (and probably the rest of the bar that could hear him; he definitely had the attention of a set of three girls a table away), laughing at his jokes, slapping hands and sloshing glasses of alcohol down on the table with drunken merriment.  
  
Had this not been part of UNCLE’s mission, he might have enjoyed himself a little more. But work before play and all that jazz.  
  
The target currently had his arm looped around Napoleon’s shoulders and was threatening to pull them both out of their chairs with his head-thrown-back laughter. Nathan Walters was a handsome young man, at least a decade younger than Napoleon. He was also the eldest son of Nathaniel Walters, a corrupt government official with ties to the newly formed 18th Street Gang and half of the Los Angeles police department in his pocket. The gang carried out his dirty work and disposed of political threats while the police cleaned the mess up and kept Walters Sr.’s record looking neat and prim.  
  
Nathaniel Walters was also embezzling taxpayer money to fund his own personal army within the streets of Los Angeles. His first recruits had been the 18th Street Gang who were more than happy to follow the orders of the man who paid in cash. Although Walter Sr.’s reason for wanting his own army was technically unknown, all the theories and assumption weren’t exactly positive.  
  
Unfortunately, Walters Sr. was a hard man to get to. Paranoia made the man overly (frustratingly) cautious. Appointments were taken by his assistants because he never met anyone face-to-face that he didn’t already know or know of. His home and office had a security on par with the Vinciguerras, if that was even possible. He had personal guards escort him whenever he went outside on foot or in his car. They had spotted Napoleon following Walters Sr. once already and his cover was nearly blown if it hadn’t been for Gaby’s voice in his ear telling him to move, _move now_.  
  
Rather than continue to pursue the father, Napoleon decided they should target the son. Nathan might be able to grant an audience with his father if he warmed to Napoleon. On the other hand, Nathan was much less conservative than his father. Nathan spent the money his father gave him with vigor, as if the money physically burned in his pocket. People flocked to him and his money and he absorbed it all, all the attention and praise. Where Nathaniel was tight-lipped, Nathan was ready to say anything once he consumed the right amount of alcohol. He had some security watch the doors of whatever bar Nathan fancied at the time, but they were not quite as diligent (or heavily armed) as the ones that guarded Nathaniel.  
  
Nathan was an easy mark and Napoleon’s charm instantly won the boy’s favor.  
  
“Come on, Dex. Tell the one about the maid in Jersey,” Nathan practically giggled into Napoleon’s ear, his drink splashing onto the table and dripping into his lap. “Georgy hasn’t heard that one, have you Georgy?”  
  
A bearded-faced boy shook his head no, his laughter coming out in chocked snorts as he simultaneously tried to drink his beer. His business suit suggested he had come straight from work but the tie currently fastened around his head suggested he would return tomorrow with a mighty headache.  
  
Napoleon, going by the alias of Dexter Manning, grinned madly as if the story awoke some crazed memory of lust and mayhem. He leaned forward and repeated the story that was partly true and mostly embellished, waving his hands around with excited enthusiasm. Nathan clung to his shoulder, slapping him on the arm when Napoleon indulged in the details of the maid’s breasts and thighs. All of the other young men that worshipped the ground Nathan walked on, leaned forward to listen, dumb grins on their faces and beers in their hands.  
  
“All of a sudden,” Napoleon continued, his careful enunciation and posh eloquence abandoned in favor of fast speech and an uncouth timbre, “I find myself in her bathrobe standing outside the door without my room key and I can hear her getting started without me. Then some old broad starts beating me with her cane and going on about indecency, I think I gave her a heart attack when I turned around, and so I just run. Right into the manager.”  
  
The boys are snickering and cackling and more booze splashes across the table and the waitress just tsks at them.  
  
“What next, Dex?” Nathan is gasping and falling off his chair again and Napoleon struggles to keep him upright. “Tell ‘em what happens next.”  
  
“So the manager kicks me out and tries to take the robe back but I don’t let him and that old lady is still yelling at me about god knows what. Now I’m walking home in this bathrobe when some black car rolls up and the driver – he asks how much I’m selling for.”  
  
This strikes the boys with a fresh fit of laughter, their cheeks burning red with drink and mirth. Nathan is gesturing to them and pointing at Napoleon as if trying to reenact how Napoleon looked being picked up by a stranger: he batted his eyes, puckered his lips, and grabbed a boy by the name of Ron round the neck and planted a sloppy kiss on his freckled cheek. This made the boys lose it even more (was this the next generation? It pained Napoleon to think about).  
  
“What you’d do?” another boy, Kyle, asked, leaning across the table, the loosened tie around his neck catching in a puddle of dark liquid.  
  
Napoleon shrugged. “I got in the car.” He had to jerk out of the way when a spray of beer burst out of George’s mouth. A boy named Zack thumped him hard on the back. “He took me to his place and he keeps patting my head like I’m some damn Spaniel and he’s going on about good booze and satin pillows and blah blah blah. To shut him up, I make him drink the bottle and now he’s just rolling around, kissing his damn pillows. So I take some clothes out of his closet, some jewelry and I walk to the nearest hotel and get a room.”  
  
“Get yourself a new maid?” Zack sneered, the expression somewhat violent on his face.  
  
Napoleon gave a wink and held a finger to his lips as if this part of the story was the secret he would not tell.  
  
The boys banged on the table and clapped loudly with their approval. Nathan had his arm around Napoleon again and was jostling him amiably, looking round the table to ensure the newest addition to his fan club was admired and well-liked.  
  
Napoleon flashed a smile around the table and stood up, declaring he would get the next round of drinks. He left with a mighty cheer beating at his back.  
  
He sauntered up to the counter where a wary barkeeper eyed him disapprovingly. The boys were definitely causing a disturbance to the other patrons and the hoots and hollers could be heard out to the street, no doubt. But the boys had money and everyone knew who Nathan’s father was so the barkeeper kept his mouth shut and wearily poured out another round of drinks.  
  
Napoleon leaned against the counter to wait, wide smile still plastered to his face. He looked up towards the stocked shelves, as if inspecting the many other drinking options offered by the bar.  
  
“I do not like that story,” a gruff voice said beside him.  
  
There was a slight quirk in his lips and then Napoleon’s smile became genuine. He didn’t turn to look at the large blond man seated at the counter beside him, only water in his glass and a newspaper in his hands.  
  
“You didn’t have to listen,” Napoleon answered in a voice only Illya would be able to hear, lips barely moving.  
  
“You Americans always speak so loud. How can you think with all this noise?” Illya asked, giving his paper a crisp snap to straighten it.  
  
“A talent only Americans possess. You can wait outside if it will help clarify your thoughts.”  
  
Illya gave a disbelieving snort. He lifted the paper as if struggling to read the small print in the dim light. But his gaze slipped over to Napoleon. “I will stay here. Keep my eye on you.”  
  
“I’m flattered, Illya, truly I am. But I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” He gave Illya a sidelong glance and a wink. Illya bristled and Napoleon had to swallow his chuckle down.  
  
“Besides, Gaby is here too.” Napoleon turned to lean back against the counter, elbows up on the polished wood as if he were in a photoshoot for some catalogue advertisement. He lifted a hand to wave at Nathan’s table but looked past the hands that shot up in reply. Gaby was seated at a table by the front door next to the large and only window that looked out onto the busy street. She had taken the chair that allowed her to both keep an eye on the door – and the two goons that loitered there – and on Napoleon. Any man that tried to sit with her and offer her company or a drink was quickly shot down with one icy glare.  
  
Gaby lifted a brow at his greeting then went back to swirling a straw through her untouched vodka. She clearly had not been impressed with his story either. Shame. He had fancied himself quite the story-teller.  
  
“Gaby is lookout,” Illya deadpanned. “I am backup. I will stay.”  
  
Napoleon twisted around to slap Illya on the shoulder as if the larger man had made some witty remark; throwing his head back and laughing with theatrical flare. Illya did not react more than lowering his newspaper.  
  
“It’s fine, Illya,” Napoleon assured him quietly, hand lingering on Illya’s shoulder while he swayed slightly on his feet, pretending to be inebriated. He leaned in as if to share his own remark. “Just a group of boys talking about old conquests and getting drunk.”  
  
“I do not like the way he touches you.”  
  
Napoleon stilled, hand frozen on Illya’s shoulder. The smile was gone from his face and he was suddenly acutely aware how everything around him faded into the background: the laughter behind him, the sound of bubbles fizzing from several full cups of beer that the barkeep pushed towards him; the accumulated heat in the bar from crowded bodies. Napoleon was aware of nothing more than the tautness beneath his palm where his hand touched Illya, the frown that made Illya’s lips too thin and his eyes hooded; the subtle shake in his long fingers that pinched the pages of his newspaper.  
  
“He treats you like some pet to parade around. Some trophy to display.”  
  
Illya was angry. But it was more than that. Napoleon saw it the moment Illya’s gaze flickered up to meet his. He was worried. About Napoleon. Worried about Napoleon in the company of Nathan.  
  
They may have stayed like that for less than a few seconds but it felt longer to Napoleon. Then the moment passed (it had to, his was in the middle of a mission), the background noise swelled back into the forefront, and Napoleon quickly threw his smile back on. He released Illya.  
  
“So which am I? Pet or trophy?” he jested as he picked up the tray of drinks.  
  
Illya didn’t bother to dignify him with an answer and only gave an irritated huff and, no, the Red Peril did not just roll his eyes. He shot a last glare at Napoleon and then returned to pretending to read the newspaper.  
  
Napoleon turned with his order of drinks and knocked his elbow against Illya’s in passing: an accident to any outside viewer but a gesture of assurance between the two of them. Napoleon didn’t have time to ease his partner’s concerns. Illya would just have to trust that Napoleon knew what he was doing. Illya sighed but bobbed his head once in a reluctant nod.  
  
“Gentlemen,” Napoleon all but shouted as he strolled back to table, “your drinks.” He placed the tray down with a flourish, hands already grabbing for the amber liquid before the metal even touched the table. Then he plopped back down on his seat next to Nathan.  
  
Nathan had his arm around him again within Napoleon’s next breath. But the way he pulled Napoleon in close was more sinister than friendly. Nathan’s arm was tight at Napoleon’s neck and there was no more humor in his expression. No, right now, Nathan looked downright deadly.  
  
Nathan brought his face close to Napoleon’s. “Say Dex,” he said in a lowered voice, a quiet force that foreshadowed some oncoming storm, “did that Commie over there say something to you?”  
  
The other boys had picked up on the change in mood and were now intently watching Nathan and Napoleon, sipping at their beer and occasional casting a furtive look about the bar.  
  
“What?” Napoleon asked dumbly.  
  
Nathan jerked his head towards Illya sitting at the counter. “That bastard Russian. Did he bother you?”  
  
Napoleon swallowed heavily, hoping Illya couldn’t hear them, hoping Illya hadn’t noticed the sudden tension forming over the group of men; hoping Illya couldn’t see the way Napoleon was imperceptibly trying to lean away from Nathan. But this was the KGB’s best agent. Illya always saw everything.  
  
Napoleon’s eyes flickered to Gaby but she was looking past him. At Illya. Face expressionless, she slid a hand over her watch. A signal. One clearly meant for the Russian. It conveyed the message, _Wait. Give him time_.  
  
Napoleon really hoped Illya abided the signal. The last thing he needed was the large man marching over and striking a match against a powder keg.  
  
“You sure he’s Russian, Nate?” Kyle muttered, bringing Napoleon’s attention back. Kyle was squinting none too inconspicuously at Illya.  
  
“Could be German.” Ron argued. “I mean, look at that pale skin, blue eyes, blond hair. A perfect Aryan if I’ve ever seen one.”  
  
“Nah, definitely Russian.” George noted. “Guy looks like Khrushchev threw on a straw hat for a wig.”  
  
Zack took a long swig from his beer before adding in a hiss, “Can’t go anywhere without seeing some Ruskie somewhere. Bastards should stay home where we told them to stay.”  
  
The boys all nodded in agreement, a darkness creeping into their eyes and twisting their mouths into something cruel.  
  
“Now hang on,” Napoleon said quickly, quietly, raising his hands in an attempt to placate the rapidly growing hostility within the young men. “He’s just a guy enjoying a drink. Same as us.”  
  
“Can’t recall the last time I threatened millions of people with nuclear warfare,” Nathan spat, “What about you, Dex? Build any walls lately?”  
  
Napoleon blanched. “You can’t possibly think he had anything to do with that. Even if he is Russian, who’s to say he was even there when all that happened?”  
  
“Had a friend killed by some Commie,” Nathan said in answer. “Guy looked a lot like that one sittin’ there. Kept rambling on about the flaws of Capitalism; how Communism was some saving grace that could liberate the country. My friend disagreed.” Nathan shoved his finger at Napoleon’s forehead. “Got a bullet for his opinion.”  
  
Anxiety was forming a tight knot in Napoleon’s chest. This was getting out of hand. His gaze snapped to Gaby and back, her hand clenched around her watch. Nathan was drunk and he was getting angrier. He had to get the situation under control, calm everyone down; continue the mission without endangering it further.  
  
“I’m sorry about your friend but you can’t blame one man’s failing on another.”  
  
Nathan was looking at Illya as if he hadn’t heard Napoleon. His narrowed eyes were burning into the larger man’s back. The way Illya’s shoulders were leveled and tight, Napoleon knew he could feel the glare.  
  
“Well,” Nathan continued, the vehemence in his voice making the word as hot as his glare, “if that bastard were here now, I’d use this on him in a second.” Nathan lifted the flap of his blazer to reveal a small pistol tucked in his belt. Napoleon felt his stomach lurch as his heart dropped past it. “But he’s not. He’s rotting in prison. But this guy–” Nathan’s fingers inched towards the grip of the gun. The other boys were watching the slow movement with wide eyes, an eagerness trembling within every one. “This guy I can do something about.”  
  
Napoleon shot his hand out, fingers catching Nathan’s wrist before the boy could touch the gun. The simmering storm in Nathan’s dark eyes turned to Napoleon.  
  
Napoleon swallowed down his growing panic and said in a very even, restrained voice, “If you go pointing a gun at this guy, you’re just as bad as the man who shot your friend. You’d be killing an innocent in cold blood.”  
  
Something changed in Nathan’s face and Napoleon flinched back. This was the not the same man who had clung to his neck and laughed at his side in friendly company. This was not the man who had joked with his friends and clapped his glass against Napoleon’s to toast the opportunities of youth. This was not a man. This was something else and Napoleon suddenly found himself very afraid of what this creature could be capable of.  
  
“You think he is _innocent_?” Nathan seethed, face leaning in towards him even as Napoleon recoiled. The other men were silent and Napoleon instinctively knew they would not be on his side.  
  
Nathan jerked to his feet, knocking his chair out from under him. It clattered noisily against the wood flooring and all eyes were instantly on them. By the time the echo died away, the room was left in an oppressive silence that pushed down on Napoleon. He was distinctly aware of Illya’s eyes on him but he didn’t dare look away from Nathan glaring down at him. He didn’t dare glance at the slight bulge under Nathan’s jacket. He didn’t dare to move, to breathe.  
  
“You think _any_ Russian is innocent?!” Nathan roared, sweeping his hands out to address the whole bar this time. The other patrons fidgeted nervously. Nathan’s friends were smiling, pride in their leader that would beat back the Red Tide with his own two fists if he had to.  
  
Napoleon met Nathan’s eyes with more composure than he felt, hands flat on his thighs, fingertips pressing into the muscle. “Any man is innocent until proven guilty.”  
  
“What is wrong with you?!” Nathan retorted. His hands grabbed the lapels of Napoleon’s shirt and heaved him up from his chair. “Are you even hearing what you’re saying?” Illya, thankfully, did not move. They were still undercover. They still had a mission to complete. Napoleon could still fix this.  
  
“Russians are not men.” Nathan bit out every word like they were sour in his mouth. “No man would threaten to destroy the world over a skirmish. No man would construct a wall and divide a family.”  
  
Nathan released Napoleon’s shirt and took him by the shoulders, imploring him to understand. “Look at him,” he instructed.  
  
Napoleon obediently turned his head to look at Illya. His partner was still sitting on the barstool (but only just), facing them fully. One foot was on the ground in preparation to jump up and move. One hand was gripping his glass of water and Napoleon could have sworn he saw cracks splitting up along the glass from the pressure of Illya’s grip. His other hand was a trembling fist at his side. He held Napoleon’s gaze, blue eyes cold and sharp, a honed icicle hanging over the head of Nathan and just _waiting_ to fall. But he still did not move except to shake in his smoldering rage.  
  
“Russians are not men. They are monsters.”  
  
Napoleon turned back to face Nathan at his next words. He was tense under Nathan’s hands, the muscles tightening, his hands curling into fists.  
  
He could fix this. He could calm Nathan. He could take control of the situation. All he had to do was agree, laugh it off, and buy another round of drinks.  
  
“They are machines, built to kill and destroy.”  
  
Anger roiled in his stomach, hot and hungry. It squeezed his heart and burned like bile up his throat. No, he could fix this.  
  
“They are dogs, bred to tear apart any man who disagrees with him.”  
  
His hands were shaking, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. His teeth were clenched so hard it made his jaw hurt. But he could still fix this.  
  
“They are base creatures. They can’t be trusted.” Nathan’s smile was a malicious row of teeth. “The only thing they’re good for is target practice.”  
  
He could- Ah, fuck it.  
  
Napoleon slammed his head down hard into Nathan’s face, his forehead easily breaking the soft cartilage of Nathan’s nose.  
  
Nathan cried out and stumbled back, hands going up to cradle his nose, blood gushing out and dripping down his chin to color his alcohol-stained shirt.  
  
Napoleon watched him with wide eyes. Realization of what he had just done hit him fast and his anger turned to ice in his veins. This was very much the opposite of rectifying the situation.  
  
Shit.  
  
Before Napoleon could recover, Nathan blindly swung a bloody fist and caught him on the jaw. He hadn’t been expecting the blow (or the force behind it) and Napoleon went down. He could taste blood where the inside of his cheek cut against his teeth. He held a hand against the sore flesh and stared up at Nathan looming ominously over him.  
  
Suddenly a glass of water shattered against Nathan’s forehead and again he screamed, both hands going up to cover his face, glass and water mixing with blood and splashing against the floor. And then Illya tackled him to the ground.  
  
Double shit.  
  
That’s when the bar erupted into chaos. People jumped up from their tables, knocking over chairs and each other as they rushed for the door. The two guards struggled against the sudden flow as they tried to get to Nathan. The waitress and barkeeper ran to a back room and quickly disappeared behind its door. Illya had Nathan pinned under him and was punching him with one precise blow after another. Nathan’s friends were up and crowding around Illya, pulling at him to get off of Nathan.  
  
And Napoleon lay sprawled on the ground where he had fallen, one elbow propping him up and the other touching his bruised jaw. He could only watch dumbly as the four boys managed to yank Illya away from Nathan, now a huddled sobbing mess of blood and bruises.  
  
Gaby was gone.  
  
The mission had gone to hell in a hand-basket dangling on Napoleon’s arm.  
  
Kyle and George each had one of Illya’s arms and were holding him back. Ron had his arms wrapped around Illya’s neck and braced himself against the floor with his legs. They dragged Illya down to his knees and Zack came up to stand before him.  
  
“Come on, Comrade,” Zack barked and threw a fist at Illya’s face. Illya’s head snapped to the side from the blow. “Show us those fangs.” Illya brought his gaze back to Zack and spat out a glob of blood. Zack hit him again, his fist connecting with Illya’s cheek with a resounding thump. Illya’s body jerked.  
  
“Stop!” Napoleon shouted.  
  
Then he was up and running at Zack. He tackled the boy and they both went flying into a table, the wood groaning under their weight as they bounced off and onto the floor. They both fell with a gasp: Napoleon on his back, Zack on his side. The air was knocked from Napoleon’s lungs and he spent a breathless minute with his mouth open wide, trying to catch a breath back.  
  
Kyle and George loosened their hold to try and see the two. It was all Illya needed.  
  
With a mighty roar, he tore his arms free from Kyle and George’s grips. He shoved George away and the boy tripped over an overturned chair. Illya grabbed hold of Kyle’s leg and punched the knee in. There was a sickening pop and Kyle collapsed, screaming and holding his leg, now bent at an odd angle. He twisted in Ron’s grip and the boy suddenly found himself face to face with a very angry Russian. Illya pinned the boy’s head between his hands and smashed his forehead against Ron’s. The boy fell back, unconscious.  
  
By now, Nathan’s guards were charging at Illya. The KGB agent met them head-on, placing himself between them and where Napoleon had managed to get onto his hands and knees. He dodged the first punch and landed his own to the back of the first guard’s neck. While this one fell to his knees, Illya’s lifted his arm to block the second guard’s attack and retaliated with a calculated punch first to the man’s stomach then throat. Both men lay gasping at Illya’s feet.  
  
Napoleon was just getting to his feet when a kick to the back of his knees sent him crashing down again. Zack kicked him a second time, a hard shoe colliding painfully with Napoleon’s ribs. He let out a strangled cry and tried to curl up against another attack. Instead Zack planted a foot on Napoleon’s back and forced him down. Napoleon’s breath again escaped from him and he struggled to reclaim it. He turned his head, one cheek pressed against the floorboards, to look up at Zack.  
  
Zack stood above him, a feral hostility in his eyes. In his hands was a barstool. Napoleon’s hands slapped uselessly against the floor as he tried to pull himself away from the menace. A cold smile contorted Zack’s face into something monstrous and he raised the stool over his head. Panic welled up in Napoleon’s throat and stuck there, a voiceless scream. This was going to hurt.  
  
Illya was a blur.  
  
One moment, he was standing victorious over the guards and the next he was at Napoleon’s side and swinging a chair at Zack like a baseball player about to hit a homerun. Napoleon vaguely noted that Illya’s form was perfect. Then the chair struck Zack’s chest and face with a triumphant crack. Boy and barstool flew back and crashed through a table.  
  
Illya looked down at Napoleon, dropping the splintered remains of the chair. The larger man appeared to barely be winded. His hair was slightly disheveled but hardly a bead of sweat marred his brow. He kept his breathing measured and his brown jacket was still mostly in place. The only sign that he had been in any sort of struggle was his eyes. They burned bright with adrenaline from the fight, with anger from Nathan’s words. But the way Illya’s gaze flickered first to the bruise of Napoleon’s jaw proved the anger burned more for what Nathan had done (and for what Zack had been about to do) to Napoleon.  
  
Napoleon dropped his gaze for a vulnerable second and his hand subconsciously went to cover the injury again. Illya understood. He was quiet, waiting, a sentinel with a bruising face standing firm over Napoleon. His hands started to relax at his side.  
  
When Napoleon looked up again – to thank Illya for the save, to reprimand him for interfering, he didn’t know – his eyes instantly locked onto the movement behind Illya.  
  
“Knife!” he shouted in warning.  
  
Illya spun around to face the oncoming George, fist already up to stop the boy in mid-step. But George was faster. He plunged his pocketknife deep into Illya’s shoulder. Illya grunted in pain and he swung a right hook at George. The blow sailed over his head when George ducked but he wrenched the knife down with him and the blade tore through Illya’s flesh. George was too close to avoid the arms that snaked around him and squeezed until he shrieked. Boy and blade were flung away into the wreckage of tables and chairs, leaving a deep, long gash in Illya’s shoulder, the pouring blood dark against the black of Illya’s sweater.  
  
In a rage, Illya stomped after where he had thrown the boy, determined to ensure every enemy could no longer move.  
  
That’s when Napoleon saw Nathan stir.  
  
The boy lifted his battered head, blood dribbling from his chin and oozing to the ground in long, thin tendrils. His nose was thoroughly broken and both eyes were turning black. His hand rustled under his coat and realization hit Napoleon hard.  
  
He was going for his gun.  
  
Completely oblivious to the pain skirting along his body, Napoleon scrambled to his feet.  
  
Nathan yanked the gun out from his belt and aimed it at Illya crouching over one of the twitching guards. Finger on the trigger, he flipped the safety off.  
  
And then Napoleon was standing in front of him.  
  
“Outta da way, Dex,” Nathan growled, voice thick and wet with blood.  
  
Napoleon really wished his body would comply but he stubbornly stayed where he was – between Nathan’s gun and Illya. He raised his hands up slowly, eyes pleading. He was watching the unwavering gun target his chest. He could hear Illya still punching, oblivious to this new danger.  
  
“Put the gun down,” Napoleon said carefully. “No one else needs to get hurt.”  
  
Nathan’s swollen eyes widened fractionally in surprise. “Yer defendin’ dat Commie,” he said slowly, as if trying to make sense of his own words. “Yer as bad as he is.”  
  
His eyes grew dark and his brows furrowed. There was no fondness for Dexter Manning in those eyes anymore.  
  
“You can die wif ‘im.”  
  
Napoleon didn’t even get the chance to flinch when the gun fired and pain exploded in his chest. He saw white and vaguely felt the sensation of weightlessness before the ground rushed up to meet him. His head smacked back against the hard wood, hands splayed out beside him, and then he lost all contact with his body. His mind seemed to be swimming on a separate plane; disassociated from the rest of his body. Everything was numb.  
  
Except for the agony in his chest.  
  
_“No!”_  
  
Napoleon wasn’t sure who had spoken or if anyone had spoken at all. His head lolled with a fresh wave of dizziness and a very tall, blonde man came charging into view.  
  
The man (he knew him, he knew he did) surged right past Napoleon and towards a very beaten man with a gun. The gun was knocked away before it could fire again (again? Had it been fired a first time?). The larger man easily picked up the bloodied man and bodily threw him. Right through the very large and only window in the bar. Glass shattered in a cacophony of sound and the body disappeared on the other side.  
  
Napoleon couldn’t understand at the moment why the thought _mission failed_ kept flashing through his mind. But whatever distracted him from the searing pain undulating in his chest was most welcome.  
  
And speaking of distractions.  
  
The tall blond was knelt beside him, his face very close to Napoleon’s. Large hands cradled Napoleon’s face.  
  
“Napoleon!” the man shouted, eyes wild. Horror danced across the man’s face, partnered with dread and helplessness.  
  
Ah, Napoleon knew he knew this man. Who could forget eyes like those: a frozen lake, the ice so thin; the water so clear, one could see all the way down to the dark depths.  
  
“Illya,” Napoleon breathed, the recognition reeling his mind back into his body. His fingers twitched and he groaned as the numbness turned sharp. Napoleon found it odd that feeling was returning rather than retreating. He found it odd and irritating.  
  
Death wasn’t supposed to hurt as much as this did. At least not for this long.  
  
Illya didn’t reply. He pulled his hands away from Napoleon’s face and tore the slighter man’s shirt open, buttons popping off and clattering away.  
  
“Expensive,” Napoleon felt it necessary to say.  
  
Illya made a rather colorful analogy in Russian.  
  
With the front of Napoleon’s shirt torn and hanging open, Illya examined the bullet wound underneath. Napoleon watched his face very closely, gauging the extent of the damage from the bullet by judging Illya’s reaction.  
  
“Expensive” wasn’t really the last word he wanted to say while on this earth; the last word Illya would hear from him. He actually wanted to say a whole lot more in a lot more detail. He wished Gaby were here too to hear his goodbye. But he found it… fitting to die here with Illya hovering over him. As far as deaths went, this one seemed to be favorable. Now all he had to do was find the proper words.  
  
To his surprise, however, Illya laid a hand against his chest (and yes, that hurt) and exhaled with pure relief, his expression brightening immensely. His eyes danced all the more with glimmering light when a small smile lifted his lips.  
  
“Thank God,” he sighed in Russian, bowing his head to touch Napoleon’s shoulder. His hair was soft against Napoleon’s cheek.  
  
Not the reaction he had been expecting over a sure-to-be-fatal bullet wound.  
  
Napoleon cleared his throat with only a hint of annoyance. Illya lifted his head, still smiling softly down at him. He lifted his hand from Napoleon’s chest and held this out for Napoleon to see.  
  
It was clean. No red. No blood. Just that large callused hand.  
  
“What?” It was all Napoleon could say. He knew he had been shot, had seen the gun be fired; had felt the bite of the bullet blast his chest. Yet, no bullet wound?  
  
“It was blank,” Illya explained, voice elated. “You are unhurt.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say that,” Napoleon muttered. He managed to lift one hand to place against his chest. He felt a slight dent where the bullet had hit but otherwise felt only unmarred flesh. There was probably a fairly impressive bruise forming beneath his fingers though. “Hurts like hell.”  
  
“You are unhurt,” Illya repeated, more to himself, a calming mantra. He replaced his hand on Napoleon’s chest as if marveling at the fact that it _was_ still intact.  
  
“So it would seem,” Napoleon smiled. He propped himself up onto his elbows with a grunt to examine the wound more closely, Illya’s hand instantly at his back now for support.  
  
“You are an idiot.”  
  
Well, so much for that touching moment. Napoleon scowled at Illya but found that his partner had a similar expression that contained more power.  
  
“I saved your life,” he retorted, doing his best not to pout.  
  
“It was blank.”  
  
“I didn’t know that.”  
  
Illya couldn’t seem to decide if he wanted to be stunned or angry (a war currently ensuing within Napoleon as well at the comprehension of his own words). The locking of a shotgun spared him from having to make a decision.  
  
The barkeeper was standing in front of the open door to the back room, the waitress peeking out from over his shoulder apprehensively. There was an alarmingly large shotgun in the man’s hands and it was currently being pointed at the space between Napoleon and Illya.  
  
Napoleon swallowed heavily and Illya bared his teeth in a warning snarl.  
  
“Git out of my bar,” the barkeeper snapped. He waved the gun towards the door before settling it back to its aimed position.  
  
“You won’t have to ask us twice,” Napoleon replied with one of his signature grins, all teeth and no warmth. He patted Illya’s shoulder.  
  
Illya kept a glare on the barkeeper but extended an arm to encircle Napoleon’s back. Together, they stood up, Napoleon leaning on Illya.  
  
“Are you well to walk?” Illya asked, refusing to look away from the gun aimed just slightly to the side of them.  
  
“Unless you want to carry me again.” Napoleon answered cheekily. His head hurt, his chest ached, and his jaw was sore, but yes, he could walk.  
  
Illya huffed but some of the tension eased away. “You are fine.”  
  
He dropped his arm away and Napoleon swayed a moment but did not fall. Illya turned to face the barkeeper and waitress fully. “I am sorry for the damage,” he said somewhat stiffly. “I can arrange to have you compensated.”  
  
“Easy with the big words, Peril. Might hurt something,” Napoleon muttered under his breath.  
  
He was willing to bet good money that Illya wanted to hit him right then.  
  
The barkeeper finally lowered the gun. “Can’t say I won’t appreciate a check,” he said, shifting into a relaxed stance. “Though I owe you for teachin’ those thugs a thing or two.” He gave them a crooked smile. “Might just keep them from comin’ back.”  
  
“Our pleasure,” Napoleon said with a mock bow. He gave a wink to the waitress but she just shook her head pointedly at him. Oh well, her number would be of no use now. “Sorry about the mess.” He gestured to the bodies, some groaning, most unresponsive.  
  
“I’ll just take it out with the rest of the trash.”  
  
They said nothing more as they turned and headed for the exit, stepping over prone bodies and broken chairs. Illya held the door open for him and then they were outside. Nathan was out cold on the sidewalk, a thin crowd of curious onlookers considering how the boy had ended up face down on the cement in a spray of glass.  
  
Napoleon quickly clutched the front of his shirt together so as to not attract unwanted attention. Illya steered them away from the crowd and across the street where a car was idling along the curb. The two wordlessly got in backseat of the car and then Gaby drove off away from the bar.  
  
“Nice of you to join us,” Napoleon said, accusation sharpening the words. He rubbed at his chest and caught of glimpse of the spreading dark color in the rearview mirror.  
  
“Knew it was going to get worse before it got better,” Gaby replied casually. “I had to convince the owner not to call the cops on you idiots and then I had to secure a getaway car.”  
  
When she spelled it out for him, Napoleon found he couldn’t really blame her for leaving them at the start of the fight. Still, it would have been nice to have some more backup. Maybe then they could have prevented Nathan from getting his gun out and stopped George before he…  
  
“Illya, show me your shoulder.”  
  
“What happened to his shoulder?” Gaby asked, looking at them from the rearview mirror.  
  
“He was stabbed,” Napoleon answered, reaching for a hidden compartment under his chair that housed a small medical kit.  
  
“What?” Gaby exclaimed.  
  
“It was small knife,” Illya tried to assure.  
  
“How is it you always attract trouble? And sharp objects.” Gaby grumbled, hand going to rub her temple.  
  
“Napoleon was shot.”  
  
“WHAT?”  
  
“It was a blank,” Napoleon said with a dismissive one-shouldered shrug. “It seems Walters Sr.’s circle of trust does not include his son.”  
  
Ignoring Gaby’s German curses, he put the medical kit in the seat between himself and Illya.  
  
“Your shoulder,” he repeated in a voice that conveyed it would be unwise for Illya to argue.  
  
Illya gave a withering sigh but shrugged out of his jacket. He turned in his seat to face Napoleon. The dark wet stain had spread from the pierced flesh of his shoulder down to the waistline of his pants. Napoleon had to quiet his sharp intake of breath so as to not alarm Gaby further.  
  
“You should have said something,” Napoleon murmured grimly.  
  
Illya copied Napoleon’s single-shouldered shrug. He probably couldn’t move the other one anyway without pain. “Never found right moment.”  
  
Napoleon clicked his tongue against his teeth disapprovingly. “No I suppose you wouldn’t.”  
  
Napoleon snapped the medical kit open and pulled out a small pair of scissors. Illya eyed them disdainfully.  
  
“What?” Napoleon asked, waving the scissors in the air. “You’re not going to tell me _your_ shirt is expensive, are you?”  
  
“No,” Illya grumbled.  
  
“Then you’ll live.”  
  
Napoleon leaned forward and, as carefully as he could while being jostled in a moving car, started to cut away the black fabric from the bleeding wound. Illya resolutely kept his gaze on a fixed point above Napoleon’s head and kept his jaw clamped tight. Luckily, Napoleon’s fingers were nimble and deft and within the next minute he had cut a rectangular strip of cloth away.  
  
The knife wound was deep and ugly: dark with blood and edged by jagged flesh. Napoleon grimaced at the sight of it and at the thought of the amount of pain created by it. Still, Illya sat quietly, calmly, gaze still looking past his partner, hands folded loosely in his lap. Napoleon wondered absentmindedly when this trust had originated.  
  
From the medical kit, Napoleon next took out cleaning wipes. The sterile smell of alcohol wafted into the air the moment he tore open the small pack. Illya didn’t even flinch (though there was a peripheral tightening around his eyes) when Napoleon pressed the cloth to the wound and dabbed away at the blood. He did his best not to pull at the torn skin lining the deep gash.  
  
The blood flow was constant. Napoleon managed to clean most of the skin around the wound. He quickly retrieved a large patch of gauze and taped this over the gash.  
  
“I’ll sew it properly when we get back,” he promised, smoothing the tape over unmarked flesh. He tried to ignore the raw anguish that left a gaping hole in his belly at the sight of the blood already seeping through the gauze.  
  
The cut was going to scar and Napoleon’s fingers lingered sadly on Illya’s shoulder. If he had been quicker, if he had been able to warn Illya in time, maybe he could have prevented this.  
  
He leaned back and looked at Illya’s face (it was just a shade paler), intending to examine more closely the damage done from Zack’s punches. Instead he saw that Illya was inspecting him with the same intensity. Napoleon ducked his head, attempting to sit back in his seat and wait out the journey back to the hotel in silence.  
  
“Let me see,” Illya commanded gently.  
  
Before Napoleon could protest by way of some sarcastic jibe, Illya’s fingers hooked around his chin and gently guided his head to face Illya.  
  
Napoleon wasn’t often rendered speechless (didn’t much like having his words or his ability to wield them be taken from him) but as Illya held his chin between light fingers and traced the bruise that had blossomed along his jawline with those impossibly blue eyes, he found that he had been struck mute.  
  
Illya’s gaze dropped down to Napoleon’s chest, the dark bruise stark against Napoleon’s torn shirt and paled chest.  
  
“You will put ice on it when we get back,” Illya concluded, thumb absently moving along Napoleon’s jaw before following his gaze to brush a knuckle against his chest.  
  
Napoleon’s mouth was strangely dry when he replied, “So long as you put it in a scotch first.” He didn’t know what to do in these situations. After working alone for so long, having someone actually care about him was a concept he had yet to wrap his head around.  
  
He couldn’t remember when Illya had first started to willingly reach out and touch him as gently has he had now.  
  
Illya gave his head a weary, though somewhat amused, shake but dropped his hand away. He straightened in his seat and Napoleon took that as his cue to do the same.  
  
“So, boys,” Gaby said, voice crisp. Napoleon and Illya both instinctively cringed. “Would either of you care to explain to me what happened in there.” It was most definitely not a question.  
  
Napoleon glanced out the window at flickering neon signs. Illya was staring down at his hands. Gaby’s fingers tapped impatiently against the steering wheel, the sound thunderous.  
  
“Let me be more specific.” Gaby added tersely. “Why was Nathan Walters, our mark if you recall, lying face-down on the sidewalk.”  
  
“He shot Napoleon,” Illya said meekly as if knowing that the truth was not strong enough to satisfy Gaby.  
  
“And why did he shoot Napoleon?”  
  
“Because he was going to shoot Illya,” Napoleon answered this time, fingers rubbing distractedly over the knuckles of his other hand.  
  
“Why?” Gaby asked in exasperation.  
  
“The guy was being a prick,” Napoleon responded, heat coloring the words and rising in his chest at the memory.  
  
“We’ve dealt with pricks before. We are going to have to deal with pricks again,” Gaby explained patiently. “Occupational hazard. What made this prick different?”  
  
That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it. But Napoleon knew the answer. Nathan had insulted Illya. He had blatantly disrespected Napoleon’s partner and had threatened him right there in the middle of the bar. That just hadn’t sat right with Napoleon. Illya was no slave to the Union; he was not some mindless drone or savage dog. He was a man with more kindness and loyalty than Napoleon deserved.  
  
He knew Illya’s past, had read his file. He knew Illya’s father had been taken away; the Kuryakin name dragged through the mud all the way to the gulag for a crime that had likely not even been committed. He knew Illya’s mother had lost her body to the men that had taken his father. The boy had been robbed of a childhood, of love and trust and had been honed as a stone-cold weapon.  
  
And yet, despite everything, Illya was here now, sitting beside Napoleon with bruises on his face and a knife wound in his shoulder because he had defended Napoleon. Despite everything, Illya was kind and gentle. He protected his partners fiercely, breaking bones with his mere fists and yet bandaged wounds with startling care. Hands that could crush also carried and calmed. This was a man worth protecting, worth fighting for. And Napoleon was going to be damned if he let some spoiled brat get away with treating his friend so poorly.  
  
Napoleon gave a start. He glanced up sharply. Gaby and Illya were both watching him: Gaby with a brow raised and Illya with his furrowed.  
  
“He was protecting my honor,” Illya answered for him.  
  
And the way he said it (because no one said things like “protecting my honor” anymore), the amount of sincere gratitude in Illya’s voice, made Napoleon instantly jump to the defensive. Because, yes, he had been _protecting Illya’s honor_ and he had lost control and that wasn’t who he was. He didn’t go out of his way to protect honors. And then Illya just had to go and protect him. And get stabbed.  
  
“You interfered,” he said curtly.  
  
“He hit you.”  
  
“I would have handled it.”  
  
“I did not like that he hit you.”  
  
“And starting a brawl was your answer.”  
  
“I do not want you hurt.”  
  
“But getting stabbed and almost shot is fine?”  
  
Illya flinched. “You were shot.”  
  
“Because I don’t want you fucking hurt either.”  
  
It was quiet, too quiet in the car; the silence deafening.  
  
Napoleon was suddenly aware that his voice had risen to a near shout, that he was encroaching on Illya’s side of the car in his anger, in his desire for Illya to understand why Napoleon disapproved of his involvement with Nathan; why Napoleon was angry that Illya had been stabbed, that he had even been in the position to be stabbed. Napoleon was angry at himself. Angry because _this wasn’t who he fucking was_.  
  
This was why he worked alone. So that his partner wouldn’t go tackling pricks with guns the moment they swung a punch at Napoleon. He worked alone so that he wouldn’t have to feel the crippling, agonizing _terror_ of seeing someone aim a gun at his partner; so that he wouldn’t have to bandage knife wounds caused by protecting _him_.  
  
He had a lot more to lose when he wasn’t alone. And it terrified him.  
  
And here Illya sat, telling him that Napoleon was worth a knife to the shoulder and a bullet to the chest.  
  
Shit.  
  
Napoleon tore his gaze away from the complexity of Illya’s expression. He chewed on the inside of his scraped cheek.  
  
Gaby asked no more questions and Illya made no more comments. He did not, however, look away from Napoleon. They drove on in silence, moving slowly now with traffic.  
  
When the car succumbed to a slow crawl, Illya grabbed his jacket and abruptly got out of the car.  
  
“Illya!” Gaby said automatically, head turning to watch him go.  
  
Napoleon had to fight down the urge to follow, to call out. No, this was good. They both needed some time to think things over, to come to the conclusion that a partnership was a liability, that maybe they were better off alone. They wouldn’t have to watch the other get hurt that way.  
  
A car honked and Gaby cursed, easing the car forward. Napoleon decidedly did not watch Illya leave but the way Gaby was craning her head to look at all the mirrors suggested she was. They inched forward through another intersection when Gaby straightened, eyes locked on something only she could see in the rearview mirror.  
  
Then the car door opened and Illya slipped back into his seat beside Napoleon, a shopping bag in his hand. Napoleon just stared. This was not what he had been expecting at all.  
  
There was no anger at all in the way Illya reached into the bag and pulled out a bag of frozen vegetables: a medley that claimed it was as fresh as vegetables taken straight from the garden.  
  
“What is that?” Napoleon asked anyway.  
  
“A bag of frozen vegetables.” Illya replied simply.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“So you can save your ice for your scotch.”  
  
Realization dawned. “I am not putting that on my face.”  
  
“It is swollen and the bruising will get worse.”  
  
“I’ll live.”  
  
Illya held the bag out for Napoleon. “I have no doubt, Cowboy.”  
  
Still Napoleon made no move to take the offered vegetables. Illya gave a frustrated huff and shook the bag once at him, flakes of ice tumbling off to melt on the seat between them.  
  
“For your chest then,” Illya conceded.  
  
Napoleon hesitated a moment more but when Illya showed no signs of backing down, he took the bag and placed it gingerly against his chest. He would be lying if he said it didn’t feel immeasurably better, the iced chunks cooling the smarting flesh.  
  
“Thank you,” Napoleon said, voice hollow.  
  
Illya nodded and faced forward. They drove the rest of the way in silence, the only sound the occasional crinkle of plastic when Napoleon adjusted the frozen bag.  
  
That same night, he telephoned Waverly to request his transfer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, this started as a "5+1 things" fic, and I suppose that underlying notion still exists, yet this story seems to have turned into something else. I'm glad you are still enjoying it and I'm elated to see return commentors. The last chapter will tie it all up hopefully in a rather painless bow, but I do enjoy my whump so be prepared for that.
> 
> Some research notes:  
> *The 18th Street Gang was a gang that began in the 1960s in Los Angeles. Short lived if I recall.  
> *This chapter takes place shortly after the Cuban Missile Crisis (1962) and the building of the Berlin Wall (1961)  
> *In regards to the blank, from the distance Napoleon was shot, a mere bruise and a dent really is plausible. It is mostly from close distances that blanks can cause serious, even fatal, damage.  
> *Khrushchev was the leader of the Soviet Union during the time of the Cold War


	7. You and Me and the Dust that Surrounds Us

This is bad.

When had “Peril” and “Cowboy” stopped being terms thrown at each other in contempt to avoid using the other’s name? When had they, instead, become terms of endearment used between calling each other by their first name? And when had they even started using a first name basis? Was it when Napoleon had decided he rather liked saying Illya’s name, the way the l’s rolled off his tongue? Was it when Napoleon had decided he rather liked hearing Illya say his name with that accent?

He is too close.

When had they grown accustomed to the other’s presence, content in sharing the same room, the same car, the same space; going so far as to even seek the other out when they wanted company, comfort in knowing the other was there with him? When had sleep start to come so easily to him just by knowing Illya was there with him in the same vicinity? When had the nightmares started when Illya was not?

Before, ensuring the other lived had been part of the job and the best way to secure the continued use of the other’s assets. Sure they may have been some desire to not let a relatively good man’s life go to waste but they hadn’t been exactly emotionally invested in each other. Now, though. Now the moment one left the other’s side, anxiety formed, growing until their return. Now irrational reaction interfered with careful practicality whenever the other was threatened. God save anyone who actually hurt one of them.

This is dangerous.

It was dangerous to him, to Illya, to Gaby, to every bad guy that crossed their path. What they went through, the steps they took to guarantee no harm came to other, the steps they took to avenge any damage that had been done – they were a danger to themselves and to others.

Napoleon drove a truck into the harbor to save Illya.

Illya broke into the laboratory of a mad scientist while being hunted to save Napoleon.

Illya betrayed his country and superior to spare Napoleon.

Napoleon disobeyed his direct orders and could have lost any hope for freedom by sparing Illya.

Illya took on a group of drunken men and two guards because one of them had punched Napoleon.

Napoleon had thrown the first punch at said men because he couldn’t stand the fact that one of them had insulted Illya, his partner, his friend.

Illya had taken a knife to the shoulder.

Napoleon had jumped in front of a gun.

He couldn’t stand the sight of Illya being hurt; couldn’t handle the absolute terror he felt when he thought he might actually lose Illya; might one day have to watch him die.

Worse than that was the thought that Illya might one day have to watch Napoleon die. Might have to deal with the guilt of being unable to save his partner. Might have to carry on missions without Napoleon to watch his back.

He doesn’t know how to deal with this.

He didn’t know what to do with a man who willingly put his life in Napoleon’s hands, who would, without question, do whatever Napoleon instructed him to do because he _trusted_ him. Napoleon. No one trusted Napoleon. He was a thief, a liar, a self-preserving ass who threw on fake smiles and hid behind sarcasm that came as easily to him as breathing air.

What was worse was that Napoleon put his life in Illya’s hands without a second thought. He would freely walk into a den of lions and all Illya would have to say was, _I will be right here._

This devotion. It scared him.

He didn’t know what to do with someone who genuinely cared about him. Napoleon. No one cared about Napoleon. He was a tool (as Sanders took every opportunity to point out), a pretty face forgotten the next day, a cocky bastard that, on their first official meeting as partners, had called out Illya’s father and mother in spite of the obvious anger it had stirred within the Russian.

But Illya, the Red Peril of Russia, KGB’s finest and most dangerous agent, fussed over every wound Napoleon received on the field (in the Russian Way, of course, which typically dealt less with subtle hints of concern and more with blunt declarations of, “You are bleeding. Stop talking for two seconds and come here.”). Illya bandaged and iced and soothed, all with that fucking look of guilt on his face that portrayed how he thought it had all been _his_ fault, as if every wound was a consequence of his inability to do better.

It broke Napoleon’s heart when no amount of assurances, sarcasm, or blatant remarks of, “It’s not your fault,” could wipe that look away completely. And not even copious amount of liquor seemed capable of dispelling the guilt that raged within Napoleon whenever Illya was hurt on _his_ watch.

He can’t do this anymore.

He couldn’t be partners with someone he cared too much about; someone he was afraid to lose; someone he would do anything for to make sure they weren’t hurt.

He told Waverly as much, though he spared most of the more specific details.

Waverly, to his credit, had listened and had not disregarded Napoleon’s request for a transfer. He had merely said, “The paperwork will take a few days to finalize. While we wait, might you perform one last mission with your team?”

A THRUSH base had been discovered in Wyoming – an abandoned mine – its operatives frequently seen pilfering scrap metal and unknown vials of liquid and emerging again with locked black trunks. Surveillance would have continued before any action was made except that, less than a week ago, the UNCLE agent acting as a mole in the THRUSH base had disappeared without a trace. Waverly’s favorite trio were to infiltrate and investigate: to find the missing agent or the reason for his disappearance.

“A fitting last job and a proper send-off for an UNCLE agent as fine as you,” Waverly had explained.

Napoleon had accepted. One last mission. Maybe he could even find the time to say goodbye to his teammates. It was a painful, fleeting thought. No, after the mission, he would take a separate plane back to America, alone. He would leave Illya and Gaby on the tarmac. He would not look back.

The next day, Napoleon, Illya, and Gaby were ushered into a plane (where Napoleon pointedly sat away from the two and chose to stare blankly out the window; offering smiles and assurances when addressed). The plane took them to a waiting car which drove them to their safehouse on the brink of a small city. Beyond, open fields of grass hid an underground mine.

They dressed in their black stealth gear and Gaby outfitted them with gadgets before she sent them out to one of the known entrances to the mine a few miles beyond the city.

And that is how he finds himself here now.

Napoleon glances up at Illya. His soon-to-be-ex-partner is poised at an open doorway while Napoleon keeps his back to the wall. Their guns are held firm and at the ready in their hands. Illya scans the empty hallway through the doorway; Napoleon has watch of the empty hallway they currently occupy. Their shoulders barely touch. Napoleon makes sure they don’t.

Illya turns his head to meet Napoleon’s questioning gaze. The Russian gives his head a curt jerk towards the doorway: the coast is clear, they can proceed.

Illya slips noiselessly into the next hallway, gun extended and searching for threats. Napoleon glides effortlessly behind him, occasionally glancing back to ensure no one is following.

The THRUSH base is a vast underground network sprawling beneath Wyoming’s soil. The organization bent on world domination had commandeered the cluster of abandoned mines for their nefarious plot and had refurbished and expanded the dark tunnels and seemingly endless mine shafts. Fresh planks of timber loom several feet above Napoleon’s head to hold back dirt and rock. The dirt walls are finely packed and evened and the floor they walk has surprisingly been paved with cement turned brown from countless feet trodding escaped earth into the floor. Lamps buzzing with electricity hang suspended in the walls every few feet to keep the tunnels well lit.

As far as secret, evil bases went, this one is fairly nice and Napoleon can’t help but admire the work and craftsmanship that went into maintaining the mines and keeping them from collapsing. The walls are dry, the air fresh and cool (it was likely being pumped in from above), and electricity keeps the place operational. There is probably even a break-room somewhere complete with a radio, hot coffee, and refrigerated snacks.

It is also a freaking maze.

Napoleon has lost track of how many times they have had to back-track because they walked into a dead-end (a circular room that looked like all the others and housed various materials) or walked through a hallway Illya claimed they had already examined (though how he knew, Napoleon didn’t have the faintest idea; they all looked the same to him). The tunnels criss and cross through each other, eventually ending in empty rooms or mine shafts that have been reconstructed as exits – small, tall rooms that resemble farmhouse silos – that contain only a rope ladder leading up to a circular metal door above.

Napoleon feels like a bug lost in an ant nest. It is only a matter of time before the colony swarms and overpowers him and Illya, dragging them into some deep, dark pit where no one would find them.

Oddly enough though, they had yet to happen upon any person, THRUSH agent or otherwise. The hallways and storage rooms are all empty. Despite Napoleon’s utmost efforts to quiet his footsteps, he can hear each step in the silence. He can hear Illya’s measured breaths as his partner sometimes takes the lead or treads silently behind him.

This wasn’t right.

Illya pauses before another doorway and holds up one hand to stop Napoleon. Napoleon obeys and waits as Illya peers down yet another hallway. When Illya turns to face him, Napoleon lifts one brow questioningly. Illya shakes his head – still no one – and the crease between his brows deepens further. He is just as confused as Napoleon. This is a THRUSH secret base. Where are all the agents?

Napoleon can only offer a shrug to answer the question mirrored in Illya’s eyes. This close, in this oppressive silence, Napoleon can hear the steady ticking of Illya’s watch; the larger man matching the beat with his finger tapping rhythmically against his gun.

Illya lifts two fingers to his throat: should they speak?

“I don’t see why not,” Napoleon replies, voice hushed. Nonetheless, his voice seems to explode within the narrow tunnel, the words bouncing around the earthen walls.

Illya cringes.

“Doesn’t seem to be anyone here,” Napoleon continues, trying to soften his voice further.

“We are in the right place, yes?” Illya asks, looking at the dirt around them. His accent is thicker than usual. He’s nervous.

“Unless someone else has a secret underground base.”

“Is this another American fad?”

Napoleon fights the smile that starts to rise unbidden to his lips. He swallows and looks away, eyes guarded, face neutral. He ignores the way Illya looks at him.

“Is this really a good time for banter?” Gaby’s voice hisses in their ears.

Illya reflexively puts a hand to the small communication device in his ear; an exact replica of the one in Napoleon’s ear.

“When is it not a good time?” Napoleon responds, voice smooth and rich.

“Cowboy is right,” Illya concurs. The stunned silence on the other end of the comlink has him hurriedly correcting himself, “About the speaking. There is no one here to hear us.”

“There, you heard it from the Peril himself.”

Illya is looking at him oddly again. Not for the thief agreeing with him, no Napoleon knows that. It was how he had said it. _Peril._ The usual cadence of adoration had been absent. In its place was something far more cold and empty. Detached.

When Illya called Napoleon _Cowboy_ it always sounded different than when he used others words or spoke another’s name. The way he said the word made it seem like he was about to say another word instead – a word like _friend_ or _partner_ or _important._ Usually, whenever Napoleon called Illya _Peril,_ the same connotation applied, affection changing how the word was delivered; what it meant.

But now, _Peril_ meant only _Peril._ It had to. Having it mean anything else will only hurt Napoleon later. When he would be on that plane by himself and resolutely not looking at Illya as said plane took off without the Russian.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Gaby growls. Paper shifts in the background: recovered intel being scrutinized and searched for answers as to why the tunnels would be empty.

“Preaching to the choir,” Napoleon mutters.

“We will keep searching,” Illya says.

“I can send in more people. Might help you find something,” Gaby offers. Her voice is faded, like she is turned away from the microphone. Probably gesturing madly at some poor intern or secretary to help with the paperwork.

“No,” Illya answers and Napoleon looks back at him long enough to give the man a disapproving frown before resuming a casual examination of one of the mounted lamps. Hey, maybe there was a bug or small camera. It was his job as a spy to check these things.

He can feel Illya’s gaze on him as the larger man continues, “I do not want anyone lost. And too many people could disrupt the tunnels.”

“Are you looking at the same tunnels I am?” Napoleon retorts. With one perfectly raised brow, he waves a hand at the paved floor below them and then at the sturdy boards above them. “This place is practically a bomb shelter.”

To make his point, he reaches up for the ceiling, fingers extended towards the thick beams of wood pressed together so professionally, not even a mote of dust could be seen from between them. Illya’s hand snaps out faster than Napoleon can see and the Russian spy easily catches the hand of the American thief between his fingers.

“Do. Not. Touch.” Illya warns with a quiet force. “For all we know, this wood is like apple: sturdy on the outside but rotted underneath.”

“How poetic,” Napoleon remarks nonchalantly. Illya flicks Napoleon’s hand away with a frustrated huff.

Yes, anger he could deal with. Napoleon would be able to turn his back on anger. He would be able to walk away from anger.

“We will keep searching,” Illya repeats to Gaby, his tone gruffer than before. “Wait for all clear.”

“Be careful,” Gaby instructs them both.

Napoleon smiles and Illya nods as if she is there with him.

“Teller, out.”

“Another ten minutes ought to do the trick, wouldn’t you say?” Napoleon asks, stepping ahead of Illya and walking blindly into another hallway. No need to check for what isn’t there. “Then we call it a day.” His mouth twists disdainfully around the sour words. Ten minutes. Was that all the time he had left as Illya’s partner? “I’m starting to miss the outside world.”

A hand catches his arm, the hold hesitant. Napoleon could tear his arm away but he doesn’t. He could keep walking but he doesn’t. He could turn to look at Illya. But he doesn’t.

“Napoleon.” Illya’s voice is as uncertain as his grip, as if he isn’t sure if he wants to speak, perhaps afraid to confront, or maybe just doesn’t know what to say.

“Are you-?” He stops. Napoleon can imagine the question that would have followed.

_Are you angry with me?_

“Are we-?” Another pause. Napoleon turns his head slightly, can see Illya’s jaw working, can see the thoughts coursing. He’s trying to get the words right.

_Are we okay?_

“Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

_What’s changed between us?_

Illya’s grip burns on Napoleon’s arm though the touch is gentle. Napoleon does not turn to face Illya completely, merely inclines his head to show he is listening.

“Everything’s fine,” he lies.

Because it’s not. Because he doesn’t want to leave, but he can’t stay. He doesn’t want to stay long enough to watch Illya die. He can’t.

“It is not,” Illya says quietly. “You do not look at me."

“Hate to harm your ego, but there are other things to look at beside you.”

Illya moves in front of Napoleon; his other hand, now devoid of a gun, takes Napoleon’s other arm and pushes Napoleon back against the dirt wall.

“Careful,” Napoleon says, unruffled, “thought you said not to touch anything.”

“Drop your act and be serious,” Illya growls, a fire already alight behind his eyes and just begging for Napoleon to fan it.

Well, Napoleon has never been one to back down from a challenge.

“I am being serious. I’m trying to complete this mission. You’re the one wasting time.”

The grip on Napoleon’s arms tighten.

“You have been acting strange since that American bar. Why?”

“I blame the scotch. I don’t think it was really a 1919.”

Illya’s fist makes a dent in the wall dangerously close to Napoleon’s face. Flecks of dirt flitter down onto his shoulder. Illya’s glare is at its zenith: all heat and ferocity and it is currently being aimed at Napoleon. Napoleon’s gaze, however, remains collected and has picked a focus point on the scar beside Illya’s eye.

“Cowboy,” Illya seethes and Napoleon can hear all the other words simmering just under its surface – _irritation_ and _fool_ and _problem._

“Peril,” Napoleon responds. And _Peril_ means only _Peril._

Illya hears it too. Napoleon can tell by the way the fire dies in Illya’s eyes; in the way his grip drops away from Napoleon’s arm; in the way the fist by Napoleon’s head opens to press palm against dirt. Illya turns his head away from Napoleon and the nearest light, the shadows creeping along his face and under his eyes. He suddenly looks very old; very tired.

“What can I do?” Illya’s voice, defeated and desolate, asks.

Caught unprepared by the sudden shift in mood; by this rare showing of vulnerability, Napoleon is stunned silent. He unexpectedly finds himself wanting nothing more than to take Illya’s face, bring that proud head back, and smooth away the hurt that he had caught only a glimpse of before Illya had looked away. He curls his hands into fists to stop himself from doing just that.

This is bad.

“What can I do to fix this?” Illya asks. His jaw is working and the question is gruff. He’s never been good at things like this, voluntarily dropping his shields, revealing the emotion tampered beneath.

He is too close.

“To have you look at me again?”

This is dangerous.

Illya drags his head back, those too blue eyes once more trying to align with Napoleon’s gaze.

He doesn’t know how to deal with this.

“Napoleon, look at me. Please.”

A puff of air escapes from between Napoleon’s lips and he is powerless when his gaze slides over to meet Illya’s. A light far brighter and all the more warmer than any fire of rage brightens Illya’s features and there’s that smile that Napoleon loves to tease out; that smile that he will definitely miss.

For a split second, he is about to confess everything. He worries his mouth will betray him and admit to Illya that he had asked for a transfer, had asked to be removed from Illya’s side because of the fear that comes with caring about someone important to him. The fear of losing them, of losing Illya.

Before he can, the scratchy notes of a song materialize and resound around the cement floor, the dirt walls, and the wooden ceiling.

Illya and Napoleon freeze, barely breathing, muscles locking in preparation for flight or a fight. They hold the other’s gaze, an unspoken conversation flowing effortlessly between them. Together, they arrive at the same conclusion.

_We are not alone._

Illya jumps back from Napoleon and retrieves his gun in the same fluid movement. He lifts one finger in front of his lips. Napoleon nods and lifts his own gun at the ready. Illya glances at either end of the hallway and quietly starts towards the music’s origin. Napoleon sidesteps after him, gaze flickering between the other end of the hallway and Illya’s back.

The music is ironically welcoming: a little jazz number with an enthusiastic bass and a wailing trumpet. If the situation had been less dire, Napoleon would have been snapping along.

The two silently stalk towards the end of the hallway, ignoring the other doorways leading to more hallways and rooms. The music grows in volume as they approach, bringing with it the acknowledgment of more instruments and the rising anxiety that they are getting closer to their target.

They pass the last doorway and the last several steps put them in front of a door. It is a door that looks like all the others: rather unassuming and made of unpainted wood. The music is louder and oblivious to the two heartbeats that have synched with the rapid rhythm of a thrumming cello.

Illya and Napoleon press themselves up flush against either side of the door, Illya’s hand hovering over the handle. He looks to Napoleon first, to assure his partner is ready for whatever they might find on the other side of the door. His eyes are two shards of ice, cold and sharp.

Napoleon forgets to avoid eye contact and meets those eyes head-on, his own similarly determined. His finger rests lightly on the trigger of his gun.

Napoleon gives Illya one curt nod, his jaw tight and legs tense with apprehension. Illya’s eyes linger on him for a split-second longer than necessarily needed and Napoleon takes that moment to wonder what the emotion is that flicks across Illya’s face.

Then the look is gone and Illya opens the door. Both agents rush into the rooms, guns out.

The music plays uninterrupted. The man sitting on the only chair at the only table in the room is equally unfazed. He hums brokenly along with the song, one finger tapping next to the record player. Wires slither away from the base of the record player, down to the floor, and into the closest dirt wall, like snakes burrowing into the earth.

The man seems just as unassuming as the door hanging open behind Napoleon and Illya. Perhaps a year or two older than Napoleon, he is rather plain looking with a face that can easily be overlooked as part of the décor. Hair the color of mud is combed back neatly to keep it out of dull, dark eyes. Dressed in a simple brown tweed suit, he looks as if he emerged from the dirt walls themselves. To summarize, this man did not look like a diabolical THRUSH agent hell-bent on world domination.

“Who are you?” Illya demands, gun aimed and steady.

The man holds up a single finger, head still inclined towards the record, eyes half-closed in some state of bliss. The trumpet has begun a solo, the horn slowly rising to its highest decibel.

Illya visibly bristles, face hardening, hands starting to shake. Napoleon snaps a glare at him. This is not the time nor the place to lose control to violent tendencies. This is their only lead in an otherwise dead-end case. They can’t lose it.

Illya’s darkening glower is all the assurance Napoleon gets that Illya will behave, for now.

With a long shrill cry, the trumpet cuts off and a man’s smooth voice starts to sing about love under a full moon.

“I do apologize,” the plain man says in a simple, polite voice, finally turning to face the two UNCLE agents, “but that is my favorite part.” He smiles broadly at his guests. “Are you aware how much skill one needs to play a trumpet to that degree? It takes constant practice, training the lungs to survive on the barest amount of oxygen; all the breath going to the instrument instead. Quite remarkable, don’t you think?”

“Quite,” Napoleon answers, his casual charm perfectly in place despite the pounding of his heart and the warning blaring in his head that screams, _trap!_ Illya is a statue beside him, gun unwavering.

“I must say, I was beginning to think you two weren’t coming,” the plain man says, a feigned look of distress present on his face. “It was getting so late, I thought you might have got lost. These tunnels are so bothersome sometimes. Why, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve got lost myself just trying to get a cup of water.”

“Is that so?” Napoleon asks with his own look of feigned interest.

Illya is silent and still, appearing more like the rocks and packed dirt above beyond the timber than a human man.

The plain man nods wistfully then flashes a grin at the two agents. “But that is neither here nor there. You’re here now and that’s what matters.”

“Who are you?” Illya repeats, the words sharp enough to cut skin.

“Oh, do excuse me. Staying down here for so long does no favors to a gentleman. Where are my manners?” The plain man stands.

Illya takes a step forward, placing himself an arm’s length ahead of Napoleon. Though he does not step completely in front of the slighter man, Napoleon understands the motion to be one of protection. Illya is expecting something to happen. Something bad. Napoleon silently concurs and both curses and admires Illya’s selflessness.

Without a flinch, as if he hadn’t even noticed, the plain man wipes invisible specks of dust from his lap and gives a flourished bow to them. “Napoleon Solo. Illya Kuryakin. I welcome you both to your first THRUSH base. I expect you are both quite excited. Go on. Take a moment and just take it all in.” With arms fully extended, palms up like some damn martyr, the plain man tilts his head back and inhales deeply, basking in this moment of pride.

“Hate to interrupt,” Napoleon interrupts in a way that clearly displays no apology for interrupting, “but you seem to have us at a disadvantage. You know who we are but we don’t know your name.”

“My name is unimportant,” the plain man says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Won’t you join me?” The plain man gestures to the table where only the one chair waits. “I’m sure you have many questions and much to talk about. I’d be delighted if you stay. It does get a bit lonely down here, and I’d appreciate the company.”

“You will come with us,” Illya interjects and Napoleon mildly wonders if Pygmalion of Cyprus had not breathed life into a second statue, for surely Illya could be it. His face and its emotionless expression seemed to be cut from the same marble that produced Galatea.

“Yes,” Napoleon offers lightly, ever the foil to Illya’s rigidity. “We can continue our conversation at our headquarters. With our boss, no less. Surely that will be pleasant company enough for you.”

As a sign of solidarity, Napoleon tucks his gun back into his holster. Illya stiffens but does not offer any verbal protest. When Napoleon steps forward past Illya and towards the plain man, however, Illya gives a start.

“Solo,” he says in a very low voice, disquiet slipping into the single word and making the hairs on the back of Napoleon’s neck stand on end.

He ignores the feeling and offers a hand to the plain man. “Won’t you join us?”

The plain man looks down at the offered hand, a twitch of disgust making his lips purse disapprovingly. Something has changed in his voice when he says, “Apologies again, Mr. Solo, but I will not go with you.”

Napoleon lets his hand drop but does not seek his gun to fill it. The plain man is clearly not armed. Napoleon has no need to be either.

Napoleon’s smile is tight and his eyes steely when he says, “And we cannot stay here to converse with you.”

“We are at an impasse, then,” the plain man muses.

“So it would seem,” Napoleon replies.

“Shame. I had rather hoped you’d be more conversational,” the plain man says with a sniff, “seeing as this _is_ your last conversation.”

“How do you mean?”

The plain man settles back into his chair, absently humming along with the song. The male’s voice has reached a crescendo and the needle on the record is nearing the middle of the disc. The song is almost over.

“It’s quite simple, I assure you,” the plain man says amiably, resting folded hands on his lap. “You have been getting in THRUSH’s way too often now and we have tired of it. To remedy this problem, we have come up with an easy solution.”

The singer’s voice cuts off and the trumpet gives one last resounding howl.

“And that is?” Napoleon asks balefully.

Illya is suddenly beside him, the tension hovering over his shoulders palpable. One hand reaches out to clamp a tight grip around Napoleon’s bicep. Napoleon can feel the tremors in Illya’s hand. An overwhelming sense of dread crashes down over Napoleon and he knows its point of origin. He shoots a sidelong glance up at his partner’s face and sees the anxiety there – in those glacier eyes, in that taut jawline. A knot forms in Napoleon’s chest and he’s finding it hard to take in an even breath.

The plain man smiles, a horrible sight: eyes too dark and grin too wide. “You die here.”

The trumpet fades and the needle slips off the record. Immediately, the wall stuck with wires explodes outward in a downpour of dirt and rock.

A chain reaction blasts up along the wall and courses up to the ceiling, a cacophonous noise of dirt and rock raining down heavily to the ground combining with the thunderous roar of the detonations.

Napoleon’s ears are ringing and his eyes sting with dust but he still manages to catch the manic laughter of the plain man even as Illya whips him around and shoves him forward. Napoleon’s body reacts faster than his mind and his feet are running before he can fully comprehend what it happening.

The mine is collapsing.

The plain man’s laughter is abruptly cut short as Napoleon and Illya clear the room. There is no time to pity the doomed fate of the man. They have to get out of this god-forsaken underground death-trap before the same fate meets them.

Explosion after explosion rip after Napoleon and Illya as they race through the empty halls, barely keeping ahead of the procession. The ceiling tumbles down at their heels, the wooden planks crumbling, snapping, splintering and a torrent of earth coursing down like thick water, quickly filling the hallways.

With his long legs, Illya easily takes the lead and turns down one hallway. Napoleon follows without question. The hallway behind them fills up with dirt, pebbles and earth spilling after them. The successive booms of continuing explosives chase after them though this particular hallway has yet to be touched. The dirt walls tremble from the force of each blast and dust startles from the walls and ceiling.

Illya turns again and Napoleon sees their goal: one of the silos, the dirt walls yawning up. An exit.

Napoleon can feel his heart jump to his throat, exhilaration at the prospect of escaping this nightmare. He spurs on his legs to run faster. They’re almost there.

The silo abruptly bursts into flame and spattering dirt. The concussion of the blasts sends out a heat wave strong enough to fling Napoleon and Illya off their feet and tumbling to the paved floor. Pebbles shoot around them, their velocity turning them into bullets. Napoleon throws his arms over his head but can feel the sting of the flying rocks scrap across his arms and back.

He lifts his head dazedly, blinking spots from his vision. Everything is too bright for a few seconds and that damned shrill ringing wraps around his brain and seems to squeeze. He’s gasping, sputtering on the air thick with dust and coating his mouth and throat with dirt.

The silo is gone, just another wall of dirt. The lights along the wall are blinking out, the avalanche of earth bringing darkness with it. The explosions are getting closer again. This hallway is next and soon it will be filled with dirt just like the others.

And Illya isn’t moving.

Napoleon scrambles to his hands and knees and crawls to Illya’s side. He roughly throws the Russian’s arm around his shoulders and heaves that massive body up.

“Illya!” Napoleon screams over the blasts, over the high-pitched ringing in his ears. He is sure that, if he survives this, it will be the only thing he hears until the end of his days. “Move!”

Illya stirs in his arms as Napoleon drags him towards another doorway, towards another hallway, towards anyplace not currently being choked with dirt. Then the arm around Napoleon’s shoulders tenses and a hand pushes down against Napoleon while the Russian struggles to get his feet under him.

“Go,” Illya coughs. He pushes away from Napoleon and lurches into a run. “I am fine, go.”

Napoleon takes the lead. Somehow he is able to hear Illya’s coughing behind him and it offers solace that the Russian is still with him; is following him.

Napoleon reaches for the holster under his jacket and pulls out a flare, silently thanking Gaby for insisting that, _Hey, you’re going into a mine, mines are underground, and underground is typically dark. If you won’t take a flashlight, take a flare and stop arguing._

He snaps the cap off the flare and lights it, just as the lamp ahead of him winks out. They are running in darkness, the red flame of the flare surrounding them in a wavering red glow. Shadows stretch towards them from all sides as they run from an invisible enemy of crushing earth. The dust around them becomes thicker, a red fog.

Napoleon waves the flare in front of him as he runs, his searching eyes watching for open doorways and halls still devoid of dirt; searching for any sign of a way out. He does not look behind him. He can’t risk tripping. He trusts – he _knows_ – that Illya is still behind him, depending on Napoleon now to find a way, some way, any way out.

Napoleon’s throat is scraped raw and his legs are burning, the dust is getting too thick to see anything and his eyes sting, but still he runs on. He lunges through the first open doorway he sees and realizes his mistake a second after.

Dirt is already pattering down onto his shoulders, rivers of loose earth streaming down from gaps in the dismantling timber above and splashing into his hair, over his face. A sturdy push from behind informs that the only option is forward now. The hallway behind them has already closed up. So Napoleon keeps running. It’s the only thing they can do. Until they can’t.

The rivers are turning into waterfalls above and pooling at Napoleon’s feet. He’s finding it harder to run, to move his feet. He’s trudging against the current of the river and the flash flood is due any moment. He can hear the roar of it.

An explosion crashes behind them and Napoleon knows this hallway is next for demolition, if the concussive force of all the blasts don’t shake the timber apart first. A wooden board gives way at Napoleon’s left and he jumps to the side, dodging the beam as it shatters to the ground with a heavy thud. Dirt cascades to the floor. Another explosion sends the remaining intact timber clattering against each other, the wood audibly groaning from the exertion of holding up the weight of the earth. It just needs to hold long enough. Long enough for Napoleon and Illya to find a secure hallway.

But he isn’t seeing one. He isn’t seeing anything other than dirt and dust and splinters and rock, all awash in the flare’s red glow, like the very pits of hell.

It’s getting harder to breath past the swelling panic in his chest and the soil clinging to the back of his parched throat. His gasping is becoming strained, each ragged pull of dusty air a painful struggle; each sharp exhale making the dust swirl up into his eyes as he plunges forward, Illya panting loudly behind him.

Another explosion, this one closer, makes the timber in front of Napoleon collapse and he dives through the sudden onslaught of falling earth. A rock tumbles loose and strikes Napoleon’s shoulder on its way down. He cries out and drops the flare, pain blossoming at the point of impact, and his knees start to buckle.

Hands slip under his arms and heave him back onto his feet. Then a hand grabs his and Napoleon only gets a glance of Illya running ahead, Napoleon’s hand grasped tightly in his, before the flare’s fire gets buried under earth. He is dragged roughly along, blind now in the disintegrating mine.

He can feel the heaviness of dirt grab at his ankles as he trips forward, can feel the pressure of the dust in his lungs and of the darkness against his senses, closing in, gripping him tight. He can feel Illya’s hand secured around his, large and strangely cool (but then the Russian’s hands were always a point above freezing), their fingers clinging together desperately, refusing to let ago, afraid of what will happen if they do: lost in the dark, buried alive, alone.

A dark thought occurs to Napoleon – why are they even bothering? Why are they still fighting? There is clearly no way out. The chain explosions are practically upon them, they’re running blindly in pitch-black, and they have no way out, no chance of a timely rescue from UNCLE.

They are going to die here.

Apparently, this thought must not yet have hit Illya (or maybe the Russian has just ignored it, as he ignores most things that he dislikes), because he is still running forward even though the dirt weighs them down and each approaching blast shakes the tunnel hard enough to throw them off their feet.

His grip is an iron vice around Napoleon’s hand. Napoleon mildly admires the way their hands fit together so nicely, Illya’s calloused and large; Napoleon’s smooth and slender. The realization dawns suddenly that he can indeed see their hands.

A faint green glow flickers around them, struggling to shine through the mist of dust. Napoleon snaps his head up and squints to find its origin.

Straight ahead. One of the exit silos is glowing green with emergency lights. It is still whole, untouched by a bomb, perhaps spared – either on purpose or from some wiring malfunction. Illya is headed straight towards it, Napoleon in tow. Their last chance.

But their time is up. The next explosion shatters the ceiling directly behind Napoleon, a spray of debris colliding painfully with his back. The ground heaves beneath his feet and the walls seem to vibrate from the force of the blast. Napoleon is left breathless and his vision spins. The next explosion is due right above their heads. And they are still several feet away from the silo. They aren’t going to make it.

_If I let go, right now, Illya will make it._

Napoleon looks up at the back of Illya’s head, silhouetted in the luminescent glow. He could tear his hand free from Illya’s grip. If it meant Illya surviving this nightmare, it was worth it. At the expense of Napoleon’s life, it was worth it. Anything to have Illya alive. Besides, he is holding the larger man back anyway.

Napoleon lets his hand go limp in Illya’s grip, but before he can fully wiggle his fingers loose, Illya squeezes his hand hard and pulls Napoleon forward to his side. The jerk on his arm makes his shoulder flare with fresh pain and his feet stumble in the dirt. Illya releases his hand and instead takes hold tightly of Napoleon’s waist. And then Illya picks him up.

The escape silo is a half-dozen steps away when the ceiling above them bursts with a powerful detonation. Napoleon tries to get a grip on Illya, his eyes widening with realization despite the pattering dirt and falling stone. With a labored grunt, Illya bodily throws Napoleon forward, through the crushing downpour.

Napoleon is weightless in the dark, flying forward but unsure where forward even is. Dirt surrounds him, blinds him. Several thoughts flit through his mind, as insubstantial as gravity’s pull at the moment. One such thought is, _Do I weight anything at all to him?_ Another may have been, _What am I going to tell Gaby, if I ever see her again?_ The last and most imperative thought is simply, _No._

Then Napoleon smacks into the floor on his good shoulder and rolls into the wall of the silo. He waits for a breathless second, eyes open wide to quickly adjust his eyesight to the dim glow of fluorescent green. He waits for an explosion to bear fire and dirt upon his defenseless self. He waits for this nightmare to end and for him to wake up in his hotel room. He waits for Illya to shake his shoulder and ask if he is okay.

When none of the above happens, Napoleon sits up, bewildered; dirt falling from his dusty hair into his dusty lap. The ringing in his ears persists though he can no longer hear the boom of explosions. He is sitting alone in the silo, a severed rope ladder lying in a tangled heap at his feet. The circular door lies out of reach far above his head, a single circular strip of glowing green light pressed into the dirt just below the door.

But Napoleon pays little attention to the exit, the light, or the way the air has become hot and heavy with sweat and dust, no more fresh air to chase away the staleness of the mine. No, his head is turned to the doorway he had come flying in through. A doorway now clogged with dirt and rock, a wave of it spilling into Napoleon’s pocket of safety; the majority blocked by two beams that had fortunately fallen in front of the doorway.

Napoleon is staring at the doorway, half expecting a large Russian to come bursting through as effectively as the explosions. The Red Peril never was one to stay knocked down.

But the only movement is settling dirt trickling into the silo.

In a flash (approximately the amount of time it took for his heart to skip a beat and then go into overdrive) Napoleon is crouched in front of the blocked doorway. He jerks and throws aside the fallen timber. Then he’s digging wildly, shoving out handfuls off dirt and giving no regard to the spillage of soil that slides into the silo, over his legs. Loose dirt tumbles over the hole he desperately makes but he keeps digging.

Too long, it’s been too long. Too long since Illya’s been buried under the crushing weight of dirt and rock. Taking dirt away only allows more to slip down. With a strangled cry, Napoleon plunges his hands into the earth, fingers searching for any sign of Illya. His face is pressed up against the soil and dust is catching on the hot tears that he refuses to let fall.

God please don’t let Illya be dead. Please. Fuck the plane ride alone and the transfer. Fuck working the rest of his sentence on solo missions. This isn’t how he wanted to leave. God damn it! He didn’t want to leave in the first place. He wants Illya with him, at his side, giving him that damned glare and frustrated huff. He wants that subtle smile and quiet chuckles. He wants those hands that touch so gently and fit so nicely with his. He wants Illya alive.

Yes, this is bad and yes he’s too close and yes this is dangerous. But if he lost Illya, he really wouldn’t know how to deal with it. Without Illya, he really wouldn’t know what to do.

There! He can feel it. Something firmer than dirt, softer than rock. Rough like fabric.

Napoleon works his fingers around the cloth and pulls hard. More dirt spills into his lap; more dust rises into the air, but the weight in Napoleon’s hands moves and he slowly backs up, dragging his find with him.

At last, Illya’s head pokes out from the earth as if Napoleon had created him from the soil and pulled him into existence. Illya’s shoulders clear the dirt next, and Napoleon rearranges his grip to haul Illya completely out into the pocket of air. The Russian is one shade of brown except where blood from scratches on his face has darkened the grime clinging to him. There’s a rather impressive mat of mud at Illya’s temple where his head had likely collided rather painfully with the paved floor when he was forced down.

Napoleon all but collapses next to Illya, panting, arms shaking and legs like putty from exertion and from the dilapidating fear of losing his partner. He doesn’t bother putting an ear to Illya’s chest. He wouldn’t be able to hear a heartbeat (or lack thereof) with the dull ringing still continuing in his ears. He puts a hand in front of Illya’s mouth and frowns. Illya isn’t breathing.

Napoleon wastes no time in tilting Illya’s head back, pinching his nose closed, and sealing Illya’s mouth with his own. He breathes out and Illya’s chest rises. Napoleon takes a deep breath of dust and again breaths for Illya. He leans back and pumps Illya’s chest with his hands.

“Peril,” Napoleon pants, too tired to yell, anxiety making his throat too tight. He switches to Russian. “You don’t get off this easy, you hear? No way are you leaving me behind to deal with Gaby.”

Napoleon presses his mouth over Illya’s and watches Illya’s chest rise out of the corner of his eye. It does not rise on its own when he pulls away.

Something sharp and cold claws at Napoleon’s belly and climbs up his throat. His heart is pounding and his chest _hurts._

“Illya!” he tries again, voice mangled and broken. He pounds on Illya’s chest, trying to get the heart started, beating, alive. “Illya, you stay with me, understand? Don’t you go. Stay here. Please, I need you here.”

Desperate, Napoleon breathes again for Illya, and this time, Illya coughs back into his mouth.

Napoleon pulls back as Illya coughs, dust rising out of his mouth, and he sucks in a ragged breath before coughing some more, hands going up to his paw at his chest. He blinks open his eyes, the glacial blue stark against the overall brown of him, and practically glowing from the green light. Those eyes slide over to see Napoleon and lock on to him.

“Cowboy?” Illya asks, voice coarse and raw.

Napoleon lets out a giddy little laugh and slumps over Illya, cool relief washing through him. “Thank god,” he mutters, still in Russian. He can feel Illya’s stuttering heartbeat against his cheek. He can feel it grow stronger.

“Ow,” Illya mutters.

Napoleon snaps upright. “Sorry.”

Illya waves the apology away. “You hit too hard,” he explains casually, well, as casually as he can with his rasping voice and a pause to turn his head away and spit out a glob of mud. “You should pump the chest with both hands, not pound with fist.”

It’s all so ridiculous, Illya instructing him on how to save his life, that Napoleon laughs again. It feels good. Illya closes his eyes tiredly but there’s that smile Napoleon loves. Yes, he decides, he does love that smile. One of the many things he loves about Illya.

“I’ll remember that next time I perform CPR on you.”

“See that you do. I do not look forward to the bruising.”

“You’re welcome.”

Illya hums.

Napoleon chuckles dryly (everything he does is dryly at the moment. The dusty air has sapped all the moisture away). He pats a hand against Illya’s hair, dispelling some of the dirt there to bring back the blond. He absently trails his fingers across Illya’s face, wiping dust away.

“How do you feel?” he asks, eyeing the matted blood at Illya’s temple. It’s a stupid question but the only one he can think to ask at the moment.

“Fine,” Illya sighs, eyes still closed against Napoleon’s touch.

A stupid answer to a stupid question.

Napoleon frowns disapprovingly. “You were buried under an insurmountable weight of dirt. Granted, you are many things, Illya Kuryakin, but at the current juncture I am going to have to argue that you are indeed not fine.”

“I will be,” Illya says, softer this time, the words slow and slurred with fatigue.

Napoleon pats his cheek. Illya makes an irritated groan but opens his eyes. “Stay awake. We’re not out of this yet.” Illya gives him a noncommittal huff but keeps his eyes open.

Who knew how much air they had left in the silo or if a THRUSH agent was going to come poking about looking for survivors.

“I’ll see if Gaby can bring the limo round,” Napoleon says and touches a finger to the device in his ear. Illya makes a move to do the same but stops when he realizes there is no longer a device in his ear. It’s lost in bowels of the earth now.

“This is Solo,” Napoleon announces. “Does this thing still work? Gaby, you there?”

“Napoleon!” Gaby exclaims loudly from the other end.

Napoleon recoils but laughs. God, it’s good to hear her voice again. “Still here.”

“Where have you been?!” Gaby demands, her voice a conflict between anger, fear, and relief. “You were supposed to check in five minutes ago. What happened? We noted some serious underground activity over here. Where’s Illya? He hasn’t checked in either. Are you both all right?”

“One question at a time, please, Gaby.” Napoleon replies, still grinning. Illya is watching him, a strange look of peace on his face as if they are lounging together in their safe house in the city and checking in with Gaby instead of being trapped in a mine shaft. But they are alive, and Napoleon supposes that’s what counted.

“What happened?”

“Oh, there was a cave-in.”

“Where’s Illya?” Gaby’s voice is tight.

“Here’s here with me.”

“Are you both all right?” The words are ground out. Cleary, Napoleon's composure is not appreciated.

“Well, I had to pull Illya out of said cave-in.”

“What?”

“I am fine,” Illya insists stubbornly, starting to sit up to prove it.

“No you’re not,” Napoleon retorts and pushes Illya back down none-too-gently. “Now hold still while I look for injuries.” Napoleon dutifully, and carefully, starts prodding at Illya’s arms and legs, checking for broken bones. Illya attempts at waving him away are in vain.

“Let me talk to Illya.”

“What is Gaby saying?”

“Too many conversations here,” Napoleon speaks to both of them. He casually unzips Illya’s jacket despite the protesting grumble and his fingers roam over ribs and sternum. Nothing immediately feels out of place, definitely a cracked rib at the least. Having been crushed by falling earth can’t have done any favors, but in all accounts, Illya had been lucky.

He shoots a pointed stare at Illya when he says, “Sorry, Gaby, Illya lost his com in the mines. Quite the liability isn’t he? Always breaking things. You should really have him buy the replacements. Might teach him a lesson.”

Napoleon turns his attention to Illya’s head wound now, leaning in closer to try and inspect it in the low light. Blood and mud have turned the laceration black. It will be a small mercy if only a concussion is suffered. Voice still light, Napoleon continues, “If you wanted to talk to Gaby, Peril, you really should take better care of your things.”

“Solo,” Gaby and Illya warn at the same time.

“Hang on, Gaby, this might be a bad frequency. I’m getting some terrible feedback.”

Illya growls and Gaby makes an exasperated sound. Napoleon is basking in it. The sound of Gaby and Illya’s voices. It’s one of the most beautiful things right now, besides Illya’s bright eyes focused on him, and the swirls in the dust he makes with every (albeit wheezing) breath.

“Gaby, hate to have called only for a favor, but we could use a pick up.”

“Where are you?” Gaby is all business again, focused on retrieving her team and bringing them home. Bless her.

“We’re still in the mine,” Napoleon answers, looking up. The circular door is taunting him. “We’re in a mine shaft. I’m looking at a door but it’s too high up,” he glances down at the rope ladder huddled on the ground, “and the ladder’s been cut. Not sure where we are in relation to the extraction point.”

Gaby is quiet for a moment but voices murmur over the connection and gadgets beep and whir with assurance. Napoleon takes the time to slip his jacket off and slices off the sleeves with the knife he swipes from Illya’s belt. He takes one for himself and offers the other to Illya to cover their noses and mouths with. The rest of the jacket goes to pillow Illya’s head (even though Illya resists and continues to claim he’s fine). Napoleon takes a corner of the jacket and tries to clean some of the grime away from the wound on Illya’s head, though he only really succeeds in making patches of Illya’s hair stick up at odd angles. Illya winces but says nothing more.

“Okay,” Gaby’s voice returns over the comlink. “We have your location and are sending an extraction and medical team to get you out.”

Napoleon raises a slender brow. “How on earth did you manage that?”

“One of Illya’s trackers. He told me the frequency he uses in case he was ever unable to reach you himself.”

Napoleon shoots a glance at Illya. How did Illya’s trackers always manage to escape his examination? Napoleon had even checked his shoes this time, and his tie-clip.

“We’re on the move,” Gaby says, the whir of a helicopter’s blades amplifying over her voice. “We’ll be there soon. Coms are open if you need me.”

“Thanks, Gaby.” Napoleon taps his device off, the noise of the helicopter replaced with the seemingly ever-present ringing still echoing faintly in his head. Illya has been watching him with that soft gaze but now it turns quizzical.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Napoleon says quickly. “Just, Gaby’s on her way.”

“She knows where we are?”

“Yes. She’s using one of the trackers I put on you.”

Illya’s brows furrow. “That can’t be,” he murmurs to himself in thought. “You did not place any trackers. I check this morning.” He looks up to Napoleon and extends a hand.

Napoleon goes still as the hand reaches towards his face. Illya’s palm slides past his jaw; fingertips brush lightly across his neck, and then pinch the collar of Napoleon’s shirt.

The confusion leaves Illya’s eyes as his brow lifts. “Ah, good, it is still there.” With a smug grin, Illya pulls his hand away and settles it over his stomach.

Napoleon quickly reaches back to his collar, fingers searching for what Illya had felt. Along the seam, right where the irritation of the tag would be able to hide it, he feels it, a slight bump – a tracking device, sewn into his shirt.

“For the love of god, Peril.”

“Have to keep my eye on you,” Illya explains matter-of-factly.

“When did you even-?”

“When you are in bathroom. You take so long I have plenty of time.”

Napoleon says nothing and Illya chuckles at his petulant pouting.

“You are terrible spy,” Illya manages before he coughs: a ragged sound. When he tries to inhale, he presses the cloth of the jacket sleeve to his mouth to keep the dust out, but he still makes a painful sucking noise.

When the fit subsides, his body goes limp and his head starts to loll until Napoleon catches it between his hands. Worry breaks through his usually immaculate mask as he glances first to Illya’s head wound then to Illya’s stuttering chest.

“Gaby, when’s the extraction?”

“We’re close. Hang in there.”

“Hang in there,” Napoleon repeats to Illya in a soft voice. He grips Illya’s shoulder, cups his cheek in his palm, trails his fingers over his forehead. It all reminds him that Illya is here, Illya is alive. And Illya is still watching him with those ageless eyes.

“What?” Napoleon asks gently, politely prodding.

Illya reaches up a hand to take Napoleon’s that had stilled along his jawline. “Thought I might lose you today,” he rasps in a quiet voice. His eyes are glossy, their focus shifting away from Napoleon. That concussion is kicking in.

“Feeling’s mutual,” Napoleon assures him. He waves a hand over Illya’s face but the larger man doesn’t seem to see it. Napoleon snaps his fingers, “Stay with me, Peril.”

In an even quieter voice, Illya says, “I do not want to lose you.”

Napoleon swallows heavily, can feel the grime slide down his throat. God knew Napoleon didn’t want to lose Illya either. That’s why he had to leave. Right? Napoleon’s grip tightens around Illya’s hand. He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t know what to do anymore, what he should do. Damn it, everything made sense when he worked alone.

Napoleon scrubs his free hand over his face. God, he is tired, and sore, and filthy, and he just wants to get out of this fucking mine. He is panting again, the air quality worsening. And decreasing.

Illya’s eyes are closed.

“Illya?” Napoleon cautions. Illya makes no move; his hand loose around Napoleon’s. “Illya!” Napoleon calls louder, taking the larger man’s face between his hands and bringing his closer. “Illya, you have to stay awake. Open your eyes. God damn it, look at me!”

Illya is motionless, face lax in Napoleon’s hands, as if in deep sleep. His breaths rattle in his chest.

Napoleon’s hand flies to the device in his ear. “Gaby!”

“We’re a minute out,” Gaby answers instantly.

“We don’t have a minute.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Illya-” Napoleon’s throat closes up and he can’t finish.

Gaby’s voice gives a curt command to someone and Napoleon can hear the faint revving of a car engine. “One minute, Napoleon, I promise.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have run his mouth so much. It’s starting to bite him in the ass. The stale air is making his tongue thick and his vision swim. Napoleon tries to take controlled, shallow breaths, but the itching dust makes him cough. He presses two fingers to the stuttering pulse on Illya’s neck and keeps them there, tediously counting the beats. He doesn’t speak but grasps Illya’s hand within his own and hopes this conveys his message well enough: _Gaby’s coming. Just hang on a minute more. We’re getting out of here. Just hang on._

“Napoleon.”

At first, he can hear Gaby’s voice intently in his hear. Then there’s a great grinding noise like metal scrapping against metal – heavy and solid. Light suddenly floods into the silo, brilliant and blinding, and turns everything that was once coated in a subdued green into a searing white. Napoleon gives a startled cry and turns his head into the crook of his arm to hide from the piercing light.

“Napoleon!”

Now Gaby’s voice is coming from his ear and from a spot directly above him. Blinking, Napoleon lifts his head and squints up. Against the bright light coming in through a hole in the ceiling, he can see a figure bending towards him. More figures appear and the drone of a helicopter ¬¬accompanies a large fleeting shadow that flits over them all.

Napoleon already knows who it is before his sight even gets the chance to adjust to the onslaught of sunlight.

“Gaby,” he breathes, and breathes again, taking a mouthful of fresh crisp air made warm by the sun and tasting faintly of dry grass.

“We’re sending down a sling,” she calls down to him. The reunion can commence later, once everyone is safe. Right now, her priority is getting them out. Napoleon nods.

The helicopter comes back into view and hovers directly over the hole, casting Napoleon and Illya into shadow – though nothing will be as dark as the closed mine filling with dirt. There is not enough room for a full gurney in the silo but a thick net is lowered from the belly of the helicopter and makes its way down to the agents under Gaby’s watchful gaze.

When the net touches the ground next to Illya, Gaby holds up a hand. Napoleon shoots her a thumbs up. She returns the gesture before disappearing. Napoleon smooths the net down flat, the knotted strands rough against his fingers. He grips the end of the net and heaves it first under Illya’s shoulders (mindful of the head wound) and then his back. It’s a bit of a struggle to maneuver Illya’s massive, unresponsive body into the middle of the net, especially since both woven object and large man have taken all the room in the small silo. Napoleon knocks a few of his limbs and head against the dirt walls before Illya is centered in the net.

When he’s satisfied that Illya is secure, he raises another thumbs up to the helicopter. “See you at the top, Peril,” he says, and all the other words are there – _friend_ and _partner_ and _important._ He gives Illya’s shoulder a squeeze before the net is lifted, cradling Illya’s form. Napoleon watches it ascend, his tension lifting away with as much ease.

Illya is finally safe. The medics will take care of him. He’ll be fine. He has to be.

The net and Illya disappear into the helicopter and then an empty hook descends. Gaby, dressed in the simple UNCLE uniform of suit and slacks and now accessorized with a harness and helmet, grabs hold of the hook and attaches it to her harness. She gives it a tug to test it then steps off the edge of the hole. The hook catches her and she sways lightly through the air as the helicopter lowers her to the ground.

She lands gracefully on her feet in front of Napoleon and flashes him a radiant grin. “Hug me,” she says and holds her arms open for him.

It’s reminiscent of their first meeting, except Napoleon had given the order and then they had sailed down a thin wire over the Berlin Wall. Now they would be rising up out of a hole in the earth. Napoleon can appreciate Gaby’s humor, and her smile, and her voice, and just how absolutely gorgeous she is right now in her suit and harness with her arms waiting for Napoleon to step into them.

He smiles, a smile of genuine joy and relief, and embraces her fiercely. She lets out a breathy laugh as he squeezes and she wraps her arms tightly around him.

She wiggles loose to have enough space to clip a harness around his waist and then they are floating back up, the dirt walls passing by slowly as they approach open air and sunlight. Napoleon has to shield his eyes when they clear the hole: suffocating dirt replaced with an expansive field of rustling grass and a brilliant blue sky.

Gaby quickly removes the large hook and the helicopter immediately takes off back towards the city, the hook trailing after it.

“They’re taking him to the hospital,” Gaby explains. She unclips the harness from Napoleon and herself as UNCLE agents swarm around them. “Waverly has already secured a room for the two of you under new aliases. They’ll get Illya taken care of.”

Napoleon just nods to all of it. It’s for the best, the helicopter taking Illya. Comparatively, Napoleon is golden. Sure he has a sore back and probably some impressive bruising, but head wounds trump all. Gaby made the right call. Doesn’t mean Napoleon liked being left behind, watching Illya leave without him. He’d rather be in the helicopter with Illya, stay with him all the way to the hospital. He wanted to be there when Illya opened his eyes.

“You will come with me,” Gaby continues, handing her gear to a waiting agent. “We are going to drive to the hospital and you are going to tell me everything that happened.”

The faces around him are a blur, parting out of his and Gaby’s way as they walk to her car but still bustling around him, checking wounds and giving gifts. Napoleon is handed a blanket by one of the attentive agents, and a bag of ice is fastened across his aching shoulder with a sling. Another agent presses a bottle of water into his hands which he shakily opens and drinks from. Most of the water is chocked back out, turned brown from the dirt in his mouth. The next few gulps stay down and cleanse his throat refreshingly. Someone hands him a bottle of aspirin and a damp rag. He swallows the pills dry and scrubs at his face with the rag, feeling the dirt rub away. Then the crowd disperses when Gaby holds the passenger side door open.

Dazed, Napoleon slips inside and buckles his seatbelt numbly. It almost feels like a dream and any moment he might wake up next to Illya’s listless form in the darkness of the collapsed mine.

“Napoleon?” Gaby asks and he turns to face her. She’s in the driver’s seat looking at him carefully, like he’s about the shatter. She frets at her bottom lip. Guilt is etched into her features. Napoleon would rather skip the apology (he wants to get to Illya) but denying Gaby the chance to express her feelings would do more harm than good.

“I’m sorry,” she says as Napoleon had expected. “We didn’t know the mine was rigged. We didn’t know it was a trap. I’d have never agreed to sending you in if I knew.”

“I know,” Napoleon says with a forgiving smile. “I don’t blame you. Neither does Illya.” He looks away, his smile twisting into something ugly. “You couldn’t have predicted the lengths THRUSH will go to: blowing up their own base, killing their own agent.” He doesn’t continue. If he does, all he’ll see is Illya’s closed eyes and unmoving chest.

“It’s not your fault,” he says at last, chest tight.

“Or yours,” Gaby adds quietly.

Napoleon’s jaw tightens. “Let’s go.”

Gaby starts the car and they’re off, several more cars trailing behind them. The helicopter is a speck ahead of them. They have a few miles until they reach the city, but at the speed Gaby is going, it will take less than half an hour.

“Start from the beginning,” she says, eyes focused on the road.

And Napoleon does, sparing only the details that revolved around his self-doubt; his desire to leave and his reasons for wanting to. He describes the plain man, explains the chain reactions of explosives that ripped the mine apart. He tells Gaby about their run through the maze, first in the light and then in the dark. He tells her how Illya threw him to safety; how Napoleon had to drag Illya after him and bring him back. He informs her of everything that happened (though he did not indulge in all that was thought or said) until her arrival.

“Thank you,” Gaby says after a long, tense moment. Her hands are gripping the steering wheel tight enough to make the leather squeak. Her eyes are bright but dry. There’s a tightness to them that makes her look older than she is. “Waverly will want a full written report, of course, but, thank you for telling me.”

Napoleon gives a weary nod and leans back tiredly in his seat, suddenly aware of just how exhausted he is. He allows his eyes to close, if only for a moment. Images of dark hallways drenched in the flickering red light of a flare are sure to rise unbidden behind his eyelids if they stay closed for too long.

“One question,” Gaby says warily, as if unsure how to ask it. As if she is unsure of what reaction it will elicit.

Napoleon slits one eye open to glance at her. Her mouth is working in that way Illya’s does when he’s trying to find the right words. There’s a touch of anger in the way her jaw moves as well. Anger at whom, Napoleon wonders.

“Fire away,” he says with as much nonchalance as he can muster.

“Why did you ask for a transfer?”

Napoleon gives a violent start. Both eyes snap open and he looks sharply at Gaby. She’s still facing the road but everything about her is coiled tense and waiting: a snake gauging whether or not to strike.

“Waverly,” he curses.

“Waverly,” she confirms, acid making the word a weapon against Napoleon rather than against the man who Napoleon had confided in.

Napoleon lets out a very long sigh and leans back into his chair. He really doesn’t want this conversation right now.

“Does Illya know?”

“No.”

Thank god for small mercies.

“What else did Waverly say?”

“That was it. I think he was hoping I could get the why from you personally.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Because we are partners, Napoleon Solo, and we’re supposed to share information with each other that affects us as a team. Your leave would affect us quite a bit.”

“Didn’t want to jeopardize the mission. News like that might be distracting.”

“You think!”

Her tone is biting: a dark, trembling force coming to its boiling point just beneath a mask that is as professionally placed on her face as it is on Napoleon’s. She’s furious and he’s in anguish. Both are staring at the road.

“Is it me?” Gaby asks, voice softer, smaller. She does not look at him but he knows she’s watching. “Do I complicate some moral of yours? Do you find me difficult?”

Napoleon gives her a lopsided smirk without malice. “All the best women do and are.”

His attempt to pacify is accepted and she punches his arm, her own smirk lifting one corner of her mouth. The expression is gone a moment later and her eyes narrow.

“Is it Illya?”

Napoleon swallows and he has to keep his gaze facing forward for fear of giving some detail away.

“Did he do something? Say something.” She gives him a sharp sidelong glance, eyes sliding to the side with some wry humor. “Did he kick your ass again?”

His voice is very controlled when he replies, “He is Illya.” It’s not a real, or even vaguely coherent, answer. And yet, Gaby nods like it explains everything; like the statement is the epitome of Illya Kuryakin himself.

Illya is Illya. He is everything he does. Everything he does embodies him as a person. He can knock a man unconscious without even knocking him off his feet, and he can force a man down with enough power to ensure the man never gets up again. But at the same time, he can stitch a wound with the care and precision of a doctor; he can smooth away the pain of a hang-over with cool fingertips. He’s infuriating and comforting and Napoleon doesn’t want to see the day when he stops.

“So it’s us,” Gaby surmises. “As a team. You just can’t bear to stay another day with us.” Her voice turns cruel but still manages to sound wounded when she concludes with, “You certainly like to live up to your name, don’t you, Mr. Solo.”

The coldness in her voice, the detachment, like Napoleon has already left and she is merely making mention of him years later to some curious colleague, leaves him empty. The pain at having caused such bitter abandonment to break through Gaby’s – his beautiful, loyal, strong, Gaby – mask makes his heart stutter.

“What I can’t bear,” he says in a perfectly measured voice, “is the thought of losing either one of you.”

Gaby is silent for a full minute and then she abruptly pulls the car over to the side of the road, tires groaning, dust kicking up around them. A few yards away, a genial sign welcomes them to the city.

“Continue to rendezvous,” Gaby says crisply into her comlink. There’s a pause and then the line of cars following Gaby drive pass them and into the city.

Gaby takes the device out of her ear and slips it into the middle console before twisting in her seat to fully face Napoleon. His fingers are still wrapped around his seatbelt which he had grabbed when Gaby veered off the road. He’s looking back at her, easily slipping on that waiting smile he wears whenever he’s about to confront something he’d really rather not.

He waits for Gaby to speak first. She does not make him wait long.

“You’re an idiot.”

“You and Peril have been hanging out too much.”

“You’d give us up because you’re afraid of losing us.”

“It’d be better if I do it now, on my own terms.” Better he do it himself before a bullet or a knife does.

“Better for who, you selfish prick? Always protecting yourself. Did you ever stop to think about what Illya and I would do without you?”

Of course. It was all he had been thinking about these past few days, and what he would do without them. But he didn’t say that. Instead he says, “Survive a little longer hopefully.”

“Napoleon,” Gaby stresses, eyes desperate and worried. Worried he might actually leave them. “It _has_ to be the three of us. That’s out best chance of survival. When we look after each other.”

“I can name a few instances when that wasn’t true.” An image of a knife plunging into Illya’s shoulder flickers in his mind.

“And I know you can name a lot more when it was,” Gaby insists.

Which… is also true. Napoleon can remember the dead-weight of Illya as he dragged him to the surface of the Vinciguerras’ harbor, and of course when Illya had pried him out of the electrocution chair. All those times when Illya patched, and healed, and carried. Without him, Napoleon would have been bleeding out or lounging half-drunk on some stranger’s couch or waiting for some IRA zealot to shoot him in the head while he was trapped in his car.

Napoleon’s resolve is weakening.

“Even today,” Gaby resumes. “Without you, Illya would have died.”

Just because he was starting to doubt himself, didn’t mean he was no less stubborn. “You would have been able to figure a way to get down to him.”

“Not in time.”

“You would have called Waverly and have him come to the rescue,” Napoleon amends with a slight shrug.

“Not in _time,_ ” Gaby emphasizes. “Napoleon, you said he wasn’t _breathing._ By the time the cavalry came, he would have been dead.”

Napoleon’s heart makes a hard beat against his chest at the mere notion.

Gaby takes Napoleon’s face between her hands. She holds his gaze with all the weight she can muster. “If you hadn’t been there, Illya would have died.” Napoleon is mute, motionless in her hands. “He needs you as much as you need him.”

Her point hits true. Napoleon slowly slides his hand over hers and swallows heavily. It takes a lot of strength of will to flash his signature grin. “Don’t go selling yourself short.”

“Oh I won’t,” Gaby smiles with pride. “I know you are both well aware who saved your angst-ridden asses back there.”

Napoleon lets out a laugh and it shakes his shoulders pleasantly. Gaby smiles at him warmly. She releases him and steers the car back onto the road. Her head is held up triumphantly, confident she has won the argument, but Napoleon is still hesitant.

The rest of the car ride is ridden with alternating companionable silence and congenial small-talk. Gaby has the air of someone who has successfully handled a particular difficult problem. Napoleon’s hands clench and unclench. Shortly they pull up to the hospital, Alexander Waverly is at the front door to greet them.

A valet manages to catch the keys Gaby tosses in his vicinity. “How is he?” she asks before Napoleon can.

“Nicolas is still undergoing examination,” Waverly answers in that polite tone he always upholds: a British characteristic it seemed. “Thus far, the doctor has diagnosed him with a case of acute dust pneumonia and some fractured ribs. Nothing modern medicine can’t cure.”

“What about his head?” Napoleon asks, absently rubbing the residual stickiness of Illya’s blood between his fingers.

Waverly looks at him without panic, but not without concern. “They’re looking at that now. I suggest you let your doctor look at you as well for injury, Christopher.”

Gaby nods with agreement and places a hand flat between Napoleon’s shoulder blades to move him along. They step forward passed Waverly.

“They were waiting for us,” Napoleon says as way of farewell. He does not look at Waverly nor does he try to mask the bite in his tone.

Waverly does not face him either but replies to the open air, “I know. I do hope you will one day accept my apology for getting you and Kuryakin in this mess.”

To be fair, it was no more Waverly’s fault than it was Napoleon’s. No one had known about the trap, the explosives. Their inside man had disappeared and UNCLE had responded accordingly. An error of this magnitude was bound to happen at some point. The team had been lucky in the past. It was only a matter of time before that luck ran out. Comparatively speaking, they still are lucky. They are still alive after all.

Napoleon stops in the waiting room and turns to face Waverly while Gaby waves down a nurse. Waverly is still by the front door, one hand tiredly rubbing at his eyes.

It didn’t take much to remind Napoleon just how much Waverly is _not_ like Sanders. Waverly actually _cared_ about his agents and, unlike Sanders, strove to keep them alive rather than mark them off as collateral damage.

“I seem to find my schedule suddenly clear,” Napoleon announces.

Waverly twists around is surprise. “Pardon?”

“For your apology. Should be able to pencil it in today.”

Something shifts in Waverly’s face and a light smile crinkles his eyes. “That would be lovely, Mr. Solo. Thank you.”

Napoleon gives a wave and then a nurse is leading him away from the room, away from Gaby and Waverly, and through large swinging doors. The hallway passes in a dull blur. The doctor and nurses poke and prod, check their readings, and test Napoleon’s sight, hearing, and breathing. They take his blood, his pulse, and his clothes.

It feels like hours of testing (and saying _yes_ or _no_ to countless questions) before Napoleon is finally lying flat in a hospital bed in a rather drafty hospital gown. A quick shower – monitored but unfortunately not assisted by an attractive nurse – has left him clean and fresh. An IV drip is attached to his arm and the powdery taste of antibiotic pills lingers on his tongue. The pillow crunches softly whenever his turns his head but the blankets are surprisingly soft and hardly scratchy at all. The perks of being a UNCLE agent.

There is a single empty bed parallel to his and he knows who it’s meant for. He gives a silent thanks to Waverly.

As far as surviving cave-ins go, he’s relatively unscathed. A few nicks from splinters and rocks mar exposed flesh and his entire back is sore from the rock that had pelted him. Water and medicine will flush out the dust in his lungs.

“You’re okay,” Gaby concurs the moment she is admitted into his room. She flashes a smile and takes the chair beside his bed, hand going to grasp his.

Napoleon returns her smile but the question in his eyes speaks before his words can.

“Illya is coming out of surgery now. It was just for the stiches on his head,” she says quickly when Napoleon’s eyes widen fractionally. “He’s okay too.”

Napoleon relaxes for the first time since entering the mine: joints liquefying, the knots breaking apart in his shoulders and back, the compression in his chest finally loosening.

“They’ll bring him in here when he’s done,” Gaby continues with a smile. She rubs her thumb over the knuckles of Napoleon’s hand.

_Can I really leave this? Do I really want to?_

The questions and the desire to see Illya’s return prevent Napoleon from having any real rest. So he lay quietly in bed with Gaby at his side, keeping his hand warm in hers. He doesn’t want to talk anymore and she doesn’t ask him to. The minutes pass in comfortable silence until the door finally opens and Illya is wheeled in on a gurney.

Napoleon pushes himself up onto his elbows and then Gaby helps him sit up as Illya is pushed to the empty bed across from Napoleon.

Illya is clean and this change shocks Napoleon the most. Gone is the all-encompassing layer of dirt that had transformed Illya into one shade of brown. His hair is once again blond but limp; shaved clean away from a fresh patch of stitches at his temple. His skin, though a shade paler, is spotless except for the scratches that mirror Napoleon’s own.

Illya’s eyes are only just blinking awake when the nurses transport him from gurney to bed. Napoleon has already thrown his legs over the side of his own bed and is starting to stand when a nurse tries to stop him, unsuccessfully of course. Napoleon only tries to sidestep her and keeps his focus on Illya when she commands him back in bed. With a sigh, the nurse slips his IV bag onto a portable stand instead and barely has time to instruct him to keep it upright before Napoleon crosses over to Illya’s bed with Gaby.

“Remember, Christopher,” the nurse calls from the doorway as the other nurses leave with the gurney, “you and Nicolas both need your rest. I expect you both in bed when I come back.” With that, she leaves the three agents alone.

“Hey there, Peril,” Napoleon greets, leaning over Illya. “Welcome back to the land of the living.” There’s a smile he can’t contain across his face. His hand quickly finds Illya’s and claims it. Gaby’s hands are already wrapped around Illya’s other hand.

Illya blinks at both of them, slight discomfort evident on his face. He visibly struggles to orient himself away from the drug-induced sleep he has just woken from. His hand tightens around Napoleon’s.

“It is,” Illya starts brokenly, voice rustic – Gaby presses a cup of water into his hand, “a pleasant view.”

Gaby lets out a laugh, the sound beautiful. She leans down to press a kiss on Illya’s forehead. With a cheeky grin, Napoleon plants one on Illya’s cheek. The latter is given a growl but there’s a smile in Illya’s eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Gaby asks, rubbing a thumb over where her kiss had been given. She accepts the empty cup back and refills it.

“Excavated.”

“Not funny, Illya,” Gaby scolds.

“What did I say about big words, Peril?” Napoleon teases.

Illya sighs: a content sound.

“Cowboy?”

“The epitome of health.”

Another sigh: this one relieved.

“Good.”

Good indeed. Napoleon sinks into the bedside chair. It all feels like a dream. A really good dream. One where he and Illya and Gaby are all together and safe and smiling. One he never wants to wake up from.

There’s a knock at the door and then Waverly pokes his head in. His eyes instantly target Napoleon.

Well so much for that moment. He just had to jinx it. The dream shatters and Napoleon can feel himself tensing again for some oncoming unpleasantness. Gaby even gives their boss a look of warning.

“Sir,” Illya greets with a little cough.

“Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly replies with a curt little bow. “I trust you’re feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you,” Illya sighs, eyes closing briefly with fatigue but his hands are still tight around Napoleon’s and Gaby’s.

“Good, good,” Waverly says, bobbing his head in a nod. “Very good to hear.” He clears his throat and his eyes shift to Napoleon once more.

_Not here. Not now._

“I do hate to interrupt your rest and I apologize to all of you, but I do have something rather important to discuss with Mr. Solo.”

A new furrow creases Illya’s brow and Napoleon silently curses their boss with a few choice words for putting it there.

“We can discuss this in private,” Napoleon says icily. Illya’s eyes flicker to him.

“I’d actually prefer we stay here,” Waverly interjects, “as this pertains to all three of you.”

“Can’t we do this later?” Gaby asks in a tone that suggests she is not asking. Illya glances at her next and his furrow deepens.

“No, no I’m afraid not,” Waverly answers, dodging her glare. “This happens to be a time-sensitive issue that must be dealt with in a timely fashion. For you see,” here Waverly’s eyes catch and hold Napoleon’s stare, “Mr. Sanders from the American CIA has requested Mr. Solo’s return to New York.”

Illya’s grip is crushing Napoleon’s hand.

Waverly lifts a knowing brow and Napoleon understands what the older man is doing. He’s granting a Napoleon an out; an opportunity for the thief to change his mind about the transfer; an opportunity for Napoleon to stay.

“Why?” Illya spits out. The venom is surprisingly strong in the single word despite just how frail Illya looks right now with his bandages and stiches and pale complexion.

Waverly gives a shrug. “Well I expect there is some mission Sanders needs Mr. Solo’s expertise for. He didn’t say.” Waverly is looking at Napoleon again. “So, what do you say, Mr. Solo? Ready to remain in the States… or should I offer up an excuse on your behalf?”

Gaby and Illya are looking at him now too (Illya’s stare is actually far more scrutinizing) and Napoleon suddenly feels very small.

He had made up his mind already when he had first asked for the transfer. But now. Waverly is giving him the chance to redact that decision. Now after Gaby has made him question his motives and the consequences of leaving. Now when Illya is gripping his hand too damn tight and looking at him with anger that Napoleon might be taken, fear that Napoleon might go, and something else, something far more vulnerable and pained and it’s all making Napoleon’s heart physically ache.

He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a breath.

“No,” Illya’s voice pipes up. “He will stay with us.”

Napoleon eyes fly open and he is gaping at Illya, mouth slightly agape in some parody of being affronted and insulted that Illya would answer for him. His stubborn streak rears up in defense.

“I’m sorry, Peril, but I’m afraid this is not up to you to decide.”

“I am your partner, yes? I should be able to give opinion. How can I keep an eye on you if you stay in America?”

“You’ll think of something. You have your bugs.”

“Though largely better than your American ones, true, New York is outside their frequency. What if you get in another fight? What if you get captured? I would not be able to reach you.”

“I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“You are terrible spy, Cowboy. Yes you do.”

Napoleon is on his feet and his face is warring between a scowl and a pout. Illya looks disgustingly smug despite the impassive expression he is clearly trying to display. Gaby looks like she is trying very hard not to laugh and there is some mischief dancing across Waverly face.

Illya has refused to relinquish his hold on Napoleon’s hand and Napoleon has made no move to shake him off.

“I think you boys might need a minute to talk amongst yourselves,” Gaby announces and stands. She lets go of Illya’s hand, gives him another peck on the forehead and moves to take the arm Waverly offers to her.

“We’ll leave you boys to it then,” Waverly says with a wave. “We’ll check in in a bit.”

Then they are gone and Illya and Napoleon are left staring at the closed door.

There aren’t enough words in the English language to curse Waverly’s name. Napoleon tries a few other languages to compensate.

Napoleon exhales a quick, frustrated breath and steps away from Illya’s bed to make room for his pacing. Illya’s hand falls away easily and he brings folded hands to his stomach as he watches Napoleon with that searching gaze.

“I thought you would be upset at being told to leave,” Illya begins slowly, as if still trying to understand Napoleon’s behavior. Well good luck to him. Napoleon can’t even understand his own behavior. “Not by my wanting you to stay.”

Napoleon stops in front of the end frame on his bed, his back to Illya. He grips the frame. He knows what is coming next but it still pains him to hear it:

“Do you want to go?”

Yes. No. He should but he can’t. He doesn’t want to see Illya get hurt but he wants to be there to prevent it.

“I don’t know,” Napoleon finally answers. He curses the weakness of his voice. He’s been cursing a lot in just the past ten minutes. What would his mother think?

“This is what has been bothering you.”

So Illya had been able to see through Waverly’s acting as well. At least he still didn’t know that it was Napoleon who had personally asked for the transfer.

“Why do you want to go?”

Napoleon is still silent but after another minute he turns and walks back to Illya. Wordlessly, he hooks a finger under the front of Illya’s hospital gown and pulls it down at an angle. The ridged scar from where the knife impaled Illya’s shoulder is shiny and pink, still fresh. Napoleon lifts his gaze and his eyes catch on the stitches knotted at Illya’s temple.

Napoleon’s mouth twists. “I seem to be a danger to your health.”

“This?” Illya asks. He lifts a hand to his shoulder and traces a finger over the scar. He makes a move to do the same to the stitches at his head but Napoleon catches his hand before he can. “This is for the best.”

Napoleon is staring at him as if Illya had just told him America was better at Russia at something. “How is this-” Napoleon gestured to all of him “-for the best?”

“It was not you,” Illya replies casually.

Napoleon opens and closes his mouth for an unflattering moment of surprise. “This is exactly the problem,” he states almost angrily. Illya merely tilts his head.

“You,” Napoleon says, flinging a hand towards Illya, “me,” he waves a hand at himself, “throwing ourselves in front of dangerous projectiles for each other. It’s a good way to die before our time.”

“Yes,” Illya responds as if this is obvious and insignificant. “This is what partners do when they care about each other.”

Napoleon is staring and he sinks into the chair Gaby vacated.

Of course they care about each other. They would do anything for each other to ensure the other is safe. They have exhibited this on more than one occasion, especially recently when Illya physically threw Napoleon to safety as the earth rained down upon them and when Napoleon kept doing CPR to bring Illya back, refusing to let him go. That is why Napoleon is so worried. Because they care too much about each other.

But it’s more than that, isn’t it? Napoleon hadn’t notice, or at least had tried to ignore the fact that maybe, just maybe, his feelings for Illya went beyond just caring too much about him. All those gentle touches, those gentle words, the picking him up when he couldn’t walk anymore. The way Illya looked at him. The way Illya is looking at him now. It’s something more.

“Did you not know that?”

“I did,” Napoleon answers. His mouths quirks with coy smirk. “It’s just that sometimes the signs are unclear.”

“Then let me make myself clear.”

Before Napoleon can question him, hands shaking with something akin to nervousness take Napoleon’s face and bring him down. Illya leans up and touches a kiss to Napoleon’s lips.

Oh. So it is something more.

It’s a chaste, little thing, quick and light and then Illya sinks back into the bed and his hands fall away. The warmth of his lips persist on Napoleon’s. Illya is looking at him uncertainly, waiting for his reaction.

Napoleon finds himself uncharacteristically shell-shocked. Because Illya Kuryakin – KBG’s finest, Russian bear, Mr. Stickler for Rules and Tradition – has just kissed him, Napoleon Solo – Mr. Pain in the Ass.

It is all very overwhelming.

“Jesus Christ, Peril,” Napoleon sputters and ducks his head onto Illya’s shoulder to hide the blossoming red on his cheeks. One more curse for the man who turned the CIA’s best into a blushing fool. “Isn’t that against some Russian rule or something?”

Illya understands the gesture and the tone to be harmless and accepting. That this something more extends to him as well. Napoleon can tell by the way Illya’s hand slips up into Napoleon’s hair, his fingers twisting in the dark locks.

“A very big rule,” Illya confirms.

Napoleon huffs a laugh into Illya’s shoulder and lifts his head, Illya’s hand tangled in his hair. “Told you this was a problem. Now you’re breaking rules for me. What’s next? Making a fan club?”

“I would not go that far. I still have dignity.”

“Not much left, I’m afraid. You did just kiss me after all.”

“True.”

Napoleon laughs and leans down to kiss Illya again, though this time not quite as chastely.

“You will stay here,” Illya says somewhat breathlessly when they pull away, “so I can make sure you do nothing stupid and get yourself killed.”

“Same goes for you,” Napoleon says with a smile.

A knock makes the two snap their attention to their door where Gaby is already walking through, Waverly behind her. She takes one look at them then folds her arms over her chest smugly. Waverly adjusts his glasses.

“Come to a decision, lads?” Waverly asks, a smiling curving at the edges of his mouth.

“Yes sir,” Napoleon replies. “You can kindly tell Sanders that I’d like to stay with UNCLE.”

“As I shall, Mr. Solo. Let me take care of that paperwork now,” Waverly grins. “I suggest you rest up for your next mission.”

“Emphasis on rest,” Gaby adds with a wink.

Illya fidgets but Napoleon merely waves as Waverly holds the door open for Gaby and they leave once more.

“So how long have you wanted to kiss me?” Napoleon asks teasingly.

“Shut up,” Illya growls without heat. His eyes start to drift close. Napoleon feels the exhaustion catching up to him too. He replaces his head on Illya’s shoulder.

“You will wake up stiff,” Illya warns in a tired murmur even as his arm curls around Napoleon’s shoulders.

“You’ve gone soft, Peril,” Napoleon mumbles. “I’ve ruined you.”

Illya touches a kiss to Napoleon’s temple. “Yes you have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this took forever. 
> 
> Terribly sorry for the wait. There was always something else that had to be done, someplace else to go, and this fic was just kinda pushed to the side. Didn't help that after each reread I felt there was always something more to do: some scene to change, some bit to add. 
> 
> And then it became so long. 
> 
> Anyway, it's done; you now have the story in its completion. 
> 
> To be honest, I wasn't really planning on having a kiss at the end. I was going for pure bromance. But the way I apparently, subconsciously, set the story up, I couldn't figure out another way to end it _without_ a kiss. So hope that's okay with you all.
> 
> Thank you all so much for waiting and for reading and for your kudos and comments.
> 
> ~~~  
> Let me make a quick note about some information MallokoPlus has given me.  
> Seatbelts weren't required in the States until 1968, so all the scenes in which I've written Guy Ritchie's characters buckling their seatbelts is historically wrong unless I add the detail that UNCLE manually added seatbelts to their cars, which isn't likely according to what I've seen in the tv show. But me, being born in a world of seatbelts, has decided to put safety first. Gotta set a good example for the kids after all. Thanks again MallokoPlus


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